We've gotten the routines of boy-raising down, I'd say, but it's those sudden unexpected things that keep getting me. The sudden hunger/exhaustion that can turn a reasonable child into a screaming brat, the poop in the pants that can happen anytime and anywhere because the three-year-old thinks the toilet seat is too cold, and then there's the scary stuff: the illnesses that turn serious just at the hour the doctor's office closes for the weekend, the accidents and daring games they like to play.
Two days ago, Owen was having a minor meltdown which I diagnosed as tiredness and had him lie down in my bed. Aldo and I were sitting in the livingroom when our next-door neighbor stopped by to talk about taking care of her aging stray cat. I jumped around the hedge to see where the cat slept, but had to come running back after I heard Owen's panic shrieks coming from our house. I ran in picturing blood, but found him still in bed, wrapped up inside my duvet cover. He had crawled in and couldn't find his way out.
I hope that's the scariest story I ever have to tell about this subject.
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