The Call of the Wild

Mornings in my house aren’t too much of hassle. I try to remain on something resembling a routine, a flexible one that is. With one toddler boy traipsing about the house, and another boy traipsing about in my stomach, stuff happens. The routine sticks–until the little things of life holler out for attention.

Mornings are my best time of day, so I get up pretty early and score an hour or two to write and start household chores before my son awakes. This of course happens only if the lack of sleep endured as a result of pregnancy allows me to do so, and providing my little boy didn’t wake me up with his bad dream in the middle of the night.

Then there’s the weather. Today I had planned on working on some room organization, but it is overcast this morning which means a prime opportunity to get a little work done in the garden. Heeding the call of the great outdoors, I head out to the garage, grabbing the garden tote on the way.

My son–not about to let me play in the dirt alone—follows close behind. I take a little time to set out his little tractor and big wheels bike so he can entertain himself when he’s not helping me by digging unnecessary holes and picking up worms. We do well at working the flower bed before hauling the tools around back to check out the vegetable garden overrun by weeds. I start yanking away at the unwanted sprouts, and looking back to make sure my child is coming. I see that he already here–trying to imitate his mommy by reaching into the dirt and pulling out the oregano.

After trying to explain the best I can to a two-year old about the difference between what I’m doing and what he’s doing, I land him in his airplane swing and let him fly the friendly skies as I work a few more minutes. Trying to save time by reaching as far as I can to pull out unwanted garden sprouts, I realize what a mistake that was as my protruding belly throws me off balance and I barely escape ending face down in my pepper plants.

As I fetch my son from flight and we head up the deck stairs, he misjudges a step and falls: unhurt but very much crying and needing a hug due to this recent scare.

After all this, we head inside for a drink of water while I sit down to return emails and jot down a few writing notes. Then the doorbell calls. It’s the Fed Ex man. The child’s comforter I found on clearance has arrived. I quickly cut open the box, as my son watches wide-eyed at the wonders of a box knife. Rushing upstairs to his soon–to–be–new room, I am pleased with the look of the comforter against the freshly painted walls.

Satisfied, I make it back to the computer, where I see that I stopped typing mid-sentence on a thought that is long gone. Oh well, this is what flexibility is all about. Besides, fixing lunch now will put us back within our normal routine, and I get started while my boy finishes his drink and trots off to play. Back on “schedule,” I feel pretty relaxed.

That is, until I start wondering where in the world I left that knife.