Early Release

I feel like I've been paroled. Suddenly, out of the blue, the key turned in the lock and the door clanged open and I'm blinking in the light of freedom. Yes. Freedom. For now, my baby sleeps. She points to her crib and wants to nap. She sleeps for two hours! At night, defying all laws of logic and fatigue, she wants to go to bed even though it's not yet 7 p.m.--and even though she actually napped--so I put her gingerly into her crib and cover her and close the door behind her and blink in the light of Freedom at 6:40 p.m.

I kind of waste my free time, though. I'm like a parolee who sits in his jammies watching cartoons instead of reading the classified ads. Today I read the newspaper and a chapter of a book and then looked at websites about Vacation Bible School and marveled that some fanatics not only have already constructed 10 foot replicas of volcanoes--they have also created websites on which to display their handiwork, complete with complicated directions. I'm more of a "read the directions and slap it together, how hard can it be?" kind of VBS director.

At any rate, tonight while my husband was gone at meetings, I read YoungestBoy two books and then came downstairs to watch the Grammys and paint the wall. The wall behind the recliner (also known as Command Central) had two gigantic holes punched into by the force of our ex-dog, Greta, a Newfoundland of great glee and even greater strength who used to run laps in the living room and into the kitchen. Then she'd come flying back to the living room where she'd land in the recliner with force great enough to break the wall. After an obscene amount of time passed, my husband finally finagled a repair by asking a handy friend we know if he could borrow some tools. (The oldest trick in my husband's book, but it works every time. His alternate trick is so ask a friend for "help." Then he stands around and watches the friend work and possibly holds a tool and chats.)

So, the friend came and fixed the wall and for weeks now, maybe a month, the wall has been staring whitely at me, begging for paint. While I was painting, YoungestBoy popped into the room, surprising me, and said, "Excuse me, Mom," which caused me to scream a tiny scream. "Yes?" I said. "Mom, can I read the B Book, just for one or two minutes?"

Of course I said yes.

Then, more painting and another appearance by YoungestBoy. "Excuse me, Mom?"

"Yes."

"I just counted to 500!" He's an enthusiastic numbers guy.

"Good for you. Now go to bed. I love you!"

After I'd finished painting, he came downstairs one final time to tell me that he'd counted to 1,000. I told him it was 9:30 p.m., time to stay in bed. He wanted to know if he could count to 3,000 and I said, "I don't care how much you count. Just don't come downstairs again."

My husband likes to think that all of YoungestBoy's good characteristics are genetic, that they, in fact, directly passed from father to son. I'd like to think that he is a shining example of my exceptional parenting skills, but then I remember I have two other kids who are not shining examples of my parenting skills. So, it probably is genetic, but I'd like to think that my genes have made YoungestBoy who he is today. Okay. Well, at the very least, I did carry him in my womb. That's got to count for something.

Here's my boy, last year: