Monday, June 7, 2010


Coen is fast approaching two and "toddler stage" is in full swing here at our house. So along with the manipulation, whining, screeching, giggling, splashing, running and climbing comes the "helping".

Coen frequently comes up along side Daniel while mowing (it's a cyclical mower, so it's not dangerous) or me while vacuuming and "helps". His helping means he stands in front of us and holds what we are pushing until he feels proud at which point he looks up at us and beams. It's great for all of three seconds until I start tripping over him, or he starts pulling on the vacuum handle so he can "help" even better, or delaying my vacuuming.

He "helped" me vacuum today as a matter of fact.

Five seconds in and I was frustrated. I was just about to reach down and tug him out of my way and then I stopped.

I know it's morbid, and God forbid it, but any day-minute-second I could lose my son forever. Then, every day-minute-second after that, I am going to wish he was here "helping" me. Thwarting my plans, delaying my cleaning and tripping me.

Hopefully, that will never, ever happen.

However, I know, that I know, that I know that it's just a matter of time, short, sweet time, that my baby will be a "big boy" and he won't want to help me. Other things will interest him. Sooner than I can imagine some other female will be the center of his world. Being involved in what I do will never be a thought in his mind.

So, until that happens, I will gladly be delayed. Happily thwarted. Joyfully inconvenienced.


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