Dear Little Drake…

I promised that you could make pancakes.  That was yesterday and we couldn’t because the eggs had expired.  I don’t like to take chances with documented expired eggs, so daddy saved the day by taking us out for breakfast.  (Thanks, Daddy).  This bright Sunday morning you were up probably around 6:30am.  Only Dad knows what time because I was sound asleep.  Vaguely, I heard something about oatmeal which pulled me closer to the realm of the consciously living.  Only a little bit.  Then I felt a nudge shove that opened my eyes.  “Mommie I want oatmeal.”  I heard oatmeal, but my mind is screaming pancakes, what about the pancakes?  I heard the Drake echo that request.

“He wants you to make oatmeal.”  Why?  My body is not working.  I could tell that you were agitated and knew right away that you were disappointed about the pancakes.  I’m thinking “why?  I’m not even up yet.”  I know.   You assessed the situation.  Mommie’s still sleeping.  Only mommie cooks.  Mommie PROMISED.  I was endowed with superhuman strength, even if only for a minute, it was enough.  I jumped out of bed and there you were, in the fridge looking for something.  “Gabe, don’t you want to make pancakes?  Daddy bought the eggs yesterday.”  You immediately took that ball and ran.  “I need a bowl.  I need the flour.  I need eggs…”  You rattled off implements of pancake creation and I provided everything like the assistant I was.  I marveled at how you took charge and I delighted in letting you run with it… up until the oil needed to be measured… well, we compromised.  You cracked the eggs, but gratefully turned them over to me to help open them…. I know you hate to get your hands mussed up… hee hee.   You held the measuring spoon while I poured the oil.  All of that worked out.  Above all you love to use the whisk, and you did.  Wow, you let me pour the batter, thanks, bud!  You announced that you need the spatula, mommie, the spatula!  You flipped those cakes like a pro and I was so proud of you, remembering how to do them (it’s been a while).   I’m always so proud of you.  BTW, those pancakes were delish!

You surprise me every day.  Recently, you’ve also been scaring me to high heaven and frustrating me even more.  Yesterday despite all my warnings and precautions (or so I thought); you know, when I told you not to peel the paint off the railing on the back porch, you acquired quite the wedge of an old, thick paint chip underneath your fingernail, causing blood.  You came inside already red-faced and crying and for me to help you.  Sigh.  All I could think about was that this was foreseeable, should’ve been avoidable, and that I did everything I could short of wrapping you in plastic wrap.  Yet, there you stood with old paint sticking out of your fingernail.  I just had to say “I told you so”, yeah I’m so bad.  I can’t think of any other way to drive home my point.  As I led you to the bathroom screaming that you don’t want “that stuff” on it, my heart was breaking.  At this point, I’m not good at being the soothing mommie that you know during these times.  While daddy held your hand, you were pressing on your injured finger and I tried to support it so that you didn’t cause more pain to yourself.  You tensed up your whole body and screamed bloody murder while I poured the hydrogen peroxide over your nail.  It stung, I know that, though I said it wouldn’t hurt.  I was thinking about infection and old paint.  Finally, finally, after trying to talk to you soothingly without an out and out guffaw (daddy was snickering at my difficulty), you got your band-aid, Spiderman, that is.  Will you do that again, Gabe?  “No.”

Then this morning while you waited for me to finish making the pancakes, you made yours then decided that your parents did not need any, you fell off the kitchen chair backwards, in slow motion because I helplessly saw the whole thing.  I had just turned around and was about to tell you to sit down correctly in the chair, when from a kneeling position I saw you suddenly go backwards, lose your grip and fly back and down, whacking the back of your head with a loud thud.  I was thinking “oh my poor baby” while my mouth spat, “this is what happens when you don’t sit down properly in the chair!” That mouth again.  This time, however, I was more the soothing mommie than yesterday.  I just had to have my say.  Not more than two minutes later, you were getting into your chair, and lost your grip, again. I was flabbergasted that should happen again. This time, however, I was right there to hold you up…. whew!

Well, Dr. Oxman said there’ll be days like this.