This Child I Prayed For...

Updated at the bottom.

This past weekend nearly drove me over the edge, y'all! And, YES it's a long post ... just deal with it, because, seriously people, I have to vent!

Frankly, I'm quite surprised that I wasn't arrested and locked up in the rubber loo-loo room by the grandparent police Sunday!

My sweet, sweet child was sick with a cold this weekend, and I, being the concerned mother, kept him home from church Sunday ... and it seems like this was the very same day that the enemy decided to break forth and destroy... climb ... kick ... bite ... and do all sorts of "enemy things" to ruin everything within my child's --- I mean, the enemy's --- reach.

I swept the floor. He turned the salt shaker upside down. I put him on the thinking step.

Then, I swept the floor. He taught himself how to use the pepper grinder. I put him back on the thinking step.

I swept the floor. He got up on top of the kitchen table and tipped a cup of lemonade (that daddy left) over. I set him down and said that getting up on the kitchen table was a "no! no!" He threw a temper tantrum. I placed him on the thinking step.

I mopped the floor. He began climbing the front of the OVEN to get on top of the stove. I grabbed him and placed him on the floor and explained that it was too dangerous to do that, because you just never know when the stove would be HOT. He threw a temper tantrum. I placed him on the thinking step.

I started making homemade BBQ sauce. He dragged a kitchen chair over to the counter to "help" mommy. I set him back down and instructed him to go play, because this was a "no, no!" He threw a temper tantrum, and I dragged took him back to the thinking step.

I went to take the wet clothing out of the washer and put them in the dryer. He climbed up the washer and had one foot in. I grabbed him ... just in time ... and set him back down on the floor and explained that he wasn't allowed to pretend to be a monkey and climb into the washing machine because it is dangerous. He threw a temper tantrum. I placed him on the thinking step. Again.

I took him downstairs to play. He threw his pacifier at me, the phone across the room, and insisted that it was okay to bite the remote control. I (calmly, of course) explained to him that itwasnotgoodtoeatelectronicsandthrowthings for the love of everything good and sane. He walked himself over to the thinking step. Oh, yes he did.

Later, after my load in the dryer was done, I went up to pull the stuff out, turned my back for one stinking second, and when I turned back around, he had fully crawled into the dryer. The HOT dryer. Oh, my aching head. Thankfully, no thinking step this time.

I went into my bedroom to fold the load of laundry. Then I closed the bedroom doors, and got into the shower. He he proceeded to toilet paper my bedroom. A shredded, toilet papery mess. Nice. I only slightly raised my voice to scold him. He sat on the thinking step in my bedroom (a set of steps my husband built for the dog to get up and down from the bed). On his own. Again.

Then. Theeeennnnn ... I went downstairs to start working on dinner, because my in-laws were on the way over. I made a mental note of the stove where my home made BBQ sauce had been cooling, and the 5 Quart Stock Pot with tea had been cooling, and the simple syrup I made was syruping. I went to sit down for oneblessedminute.

And all was quiet. Ummmm ... too quiet. Way, way, WAY too quiet. So I ran back into the kitchen to find my son ... this.child.I.prayed.for ... standing over the stove, stirring the tea with the BBQ spoon, and the BBQ sauce with the simple syrup spatula. I raised my voice, because I hadn't raised my voice AT.ALL. [HA!] throughout the day, and gently, calmly, rationally, explained to my 20-month-old-monkey-child that this was a NO! No! and instructed him with a final, "DO NOT TOUCH" as I turned around to deposit the spoons into the sink.

And as I was turning around from the sink ... not even one second later ... as if I were in a living nightmare, my child ... the love of my life ... the apple of my eye ... my pride and joy ... grabbed the 5 Quart Stock Pot full of lukewarm tea, and dumped it. On the floor. On me. On, on, on ... GAAAAHHHHH!!! ON EVERYTHING!

At which point, I totally lost it and screamed at the top of my lungs, "HUNTER THOMAS GET ON THAT STINKING THINKING STEP BEFORE MOMMA BEATS YOUR HINEY. STOP CRYING, BECAUSE TRUST ME SON, I CAN GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT! GO! NOW!"

Lord, forgive me anyhow.

My husband, who had been tenderly tending to his precious, and most delicious ribs out on the smoker, ran into the kitchen and stared at the floor and then at me in total shock. I'm sure I didn't look like a wild woman or anything. Especially standing, dripping wet, in three or five thousand inches of lukewarm tea.

So, because at this point, I was the model of decorum, I sweetly asked my dear husband to get the mop and bucket, and some to-we-ls to fi-hi-x th-hi-his me-heh-heh-ss. I wasn't crying, or anything like that. No. I was calm. The spitting image of Mrs. Cleaver.

So, while Hunter was bawling his little eyes out on "the step," and momma was slowly breathing in, and out, and in, and out, and daddy was opening the garage door to get the mop and bucket... Hunter thought it would be a good ... nay ... A GREAT time to stop crying, and hop off the thinking step, because maybe daddy would let him sit on his tractor, because it's the mostest favoritest thing in the whole widest world for Hunter to do.

Seriously. I could not believe my eyes. I raised my voice in my best MOMMA BEAR sounding tone, and said... "HUNTER THOMAS, GET BACK ON THAT STEP."

To which my child jumped about two feet into the air ... yeah, didn't know he could jump that high ... and ran to the step.

And grandma and grandpa walked in.

To which my loving and respectful husband said, "keep walking, Dad, and don't say one single word to Hunter -- just sit on the couch!" Which, trust me when I say, was a very difficult thing for grandpa and grandma to do. But they did. Fortunately.

And the floor got cleaned up. And I asked my dear and patient husband to move the bucket because my back was killing me and I couldn't lift it. Which really meant, "please put it back into the garage." Which he didn't. He just moved it away from the middle of the floor.

And I'll give you TWO guesses what happened next ... and the first guess does NOT count.

See how smart you are? You are correct! Hunter came into the kitchen and dropped a little throw carpet right into the bucket, then knocked the bucket ... OVER ... because, what could be more fun than an additional inch of water on the hardwood floor!

At which point, both mom and dad lost it, and grandpa turned to grandma and said ... "maybe we should come back another night" and grandma said, "I think we should take Hunter with us, too."

Thank you Jesus for my beautiful son!

I soooo deserve the Blogger Reflection Award ... dontcha think?

Update: Just so y'all know ... grandma and grandpa ended up not taking the little angel with them, because mama was able to sufficiently calm down and recover after a healthy dose of homemade strawberry shortcake (the little angel did successfully help in this endeavor, and mama was happy with him once again). And just so you know ... he did have his little hiney tapped at various times throughout the day, but mommy felt all sorry for him because he was all sick and snuffly and coughy and ... last time that ever happens!)