Dear Gideon James,
Hello, Little Man. Jolly Monster. You, my Friend, are my favoritest boy ever. You are explosive and passionate and built like a tank. You are constantly covered in a mixture of pasta, snot, grease, and toothpaste. I cannot get enough of you.
You are independent, happy to play alone but in the company of others. You have wicked balance and spacial awareness… I have watched you climb up, over, and through things that defy the physics of dexterity. Sometimes- SOMETIMES – you run into trouble, and it is then that I hear a clear, “MAHM. MAHM-IE. MAAAAHM.” for me to rescue you. Secretly, I live for those moments.
This week, I was hacking through Mt. Laundry while you made the rounds: Abe’s bed, Abe’s food, Abe’s water. Rylie’s bed. Rylie’s socks. Rylie’s shoes. And then, on to upstairs. In the bathroom (the pipes, Child… I can hear the water come down the pipes) where you climb onto the counter and help yourself to a raging water fountain and then flush the potty 17 times.
Generally, you join me not long after the potty-flushing since most of your life is a stage and you so enjoy the audience. But this time you did not. I heard the familiar crash of a bathroom cup hitting the floor and I heard you scrambling to get down… and then I heard, well… not crying exactly but more of an achy annoyed, “Booooooooo hoooo.” Then, nothing. I waited for the wailing. But, nothing. So I continued folding and you continued splashing with the occasional break to let out the whiny, “Boooo hooo.” No, “Help.” No, “Mahm.” No tears. Hmmm.
When I finally made it upstairs about 7 minutes later, I did not find you on the coffee table among-st your barn and animals. I did not find you in the cabinets covered in flour and syrup. The mitten box was undisturbed and there was no little patter of Gideon Feet to
distract me from a disaster in the back of the house welcome me. In fact, there was no Gideon to greet me at all.
Because you were still in the bathroom… the back of your shirt hooked on the toilet paper dispenser that collared you as you tried to make your escape off the counter. Rather than turn yourself in by calling for help, you made the most of your time by emptying the toilet of its water, filling it with the bath toys you could reach, and topping it all off with a layer of unrolled toilet paper icing.
And that is you in a nutshell, Son. Always in ‘innocent’ trouble. Rarely flustered. Constantly looking for something else to do.
I fear for your future, but I am so excited to have ringside seats.