I recall the child safety information with my first baby. I went ahead and plugged all the outlets, put a lock on the fridge, etc. but Aresa wasn't mischievous that way. Or so I thought. Now I am realizing she would have gotten into everything if I had made things available.
With my second child, little Eliot the toilet splasher, there is a whole world of wonderful things to explore, often because big sister doesn't remember our constant talks about keeping things off the floor. Today has been particularly interesting/challenging depending of which of us you ask. I have pulled paper, a large rock, blue marker, a hair ball (you know, those balls of hair that come off clothes after they've been dried), and a big hunk of dirt out of Eliot's mouth. Well, not the dirt, by the time I caught that most of it had gone down hatch.
At least I was able to get most things out but my sanity is eating away at itself :) And this too shall pass. Maybe that should be the name of this blog.
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This will pass?
Jeeze, should I tell her? [paces back and forth, hands behind back, muttering to self: better that she know? better that she have that peace of mind that will allow her to keep going? better that she knows?]
Mother of dd 18.5 y.o./ds 15.5 here, and I'm *still* telling myself it will pass, it just hasn't yet. You're just still in the dirtball eating stage. Later comes the so-while-mom-takes-a-short-break-to-pee-I'll-just-open-the-dishwasher-door-make-a-ladder-of-the-racks-climb-up-balance-w/one-foot-on-fish-tank-get-myself-a-banana-off-top-of-frig stage (ten months), the jumps-up-runs-into-bathroom-pulls-the-drain-cover-off-shower-and-drops-shampoo-bottle-down-shower-drain-where-it-fits-almost-perfectly-but-just-loose-enough-to-function-as-ball-bearing-so-it-takes-two-hours-to-hacksaw-through-drainpipe stage (age 1), the Mom-can-I-jump-out-the-upstairs-window? stage (three) and they just keep coming.
At fifteen it's dirtbikes, not dirtballs, but this is where men come from, and why mother-in-laws in some cultures think that their daughter-in-laws should revere them--because the dils don't know (yet) what the mils went through so that their sons survived to adulthood. Cheery thought, yes?
And I just ended up here because I couldn't remember how to spell conessuir and apparently still don't have it right. Carry on! and nap whenever you can grab one . . .
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