Monday, August 22, 2011

When Aidan was a wee lad.

With one hour to go until I burn rubber toward the bus stop, now seems a good time to reminisce about the times when Aidan was just a wee lad. 

Before second grade, before Call of Duty, and before the big talk about the birds and the bees, Aidan was just a wee lad.  One day, I came into the kitchen to see him standing at the open dishwasher, removing and licking the dirty silverware one by one.

Following the disinfection of my little wee one, I began to ponder life's fragile purpose, and wondered in amazement about the furry, germy little creatures we call children.  When one considers a child, all 40 booger-coated inches of them, terms like "natural selection" cease to have meaning.  Why are we given these filthy little mannerless creatures to care for and love?  They simply would not make it without us.  They think nothing of eating dirt: instead of E.coli and amoebas and evaporating dog urine, they see a big pile of "I wonder what that tastes like."  Could you imagine going outside and eating a handful of dirt?  Well, could you?

Upon changing my current wee one's dirty diaper, his hand immediately seeks out and finds the poo, and my lightning-fast right hand is the only thing that prevents said poo from entering the 2nd most cool spot on wee one's body according to wee one:  his mouth.

Seriously?  How do we even make it to adulthood?  Kids have absolutely no idea about safety, cleanliness, the correct way to blow their nose.  I have to constantly remind current wee one of his inability to survive in a rain storm.  He couldn't make it out of a puddle.  I'm pretty sure I'm averaging one new grey hair a day at this stage, and little wee one hasn't even begun to properly crawl, instead sitting and scooting forward on his butt where, if a misplaced spear happened to be laying on the ground, he'd have absolutely no qualms about impaling himself. 

When I reminisce about my oldest wee one, I remember an evening bath during which he tried to shave his beard and/or mustache with my razor, but somehow ended up shaving his lips instead.  Once, he plopped down on his bed onto his knees, only to have one rascally aforementioned knee slide between the slats of his footboard, his wails of despair promptly leading to a mom-induced escape hatch by way of a hacksaw and some old-fashioned American adrenaline. 

Think back to your childhood, then go hug your mom.  Without her, you wouldn't be here.