Poor little Man-show. He has so many plans and none of the finesse to execute them; so many big ideas dashed by a mother who is completely uninterested in daily trips to the ER.
I wish he wouldn't eat dirt with a spoon and eat chalk like it's a carrot. I wish he wouldn't get caught in the baby gate. I wish he wouldn't hare up the stairs anytime that gate is ajar. I wish he wouldn't try to climb his highchair. I wish he wouldn't dance on the coffee table and run heart-stopping laps on the couch. I wish he wouldn't draw on the walls. I wish he wouldn't hit his head on 80 things a day. I wish he wouldn't use his head to try to push through tight spaces between furniture. I wish he wouldn't "type" on my keyboard and unplug my Mac. I wish he wouldn't open the dishwasher and play with the oven knobs. I wish he wouldn't stand up underneath tables. I wish he would stop pinching his fingers in the cupboards after the first 20 times. I wish he wouldn't get stuck in boxes. I wish I had never taught him the word "HELP".
I'm not one to wish away days, let alone weeks. But I can't help gazing wistfully at a time about six months down the track, when he's two, where I'm convinced he'll be able to do so much more for himself and so much less to himself. Then I can spend less time worrying and rescuing and repairing and consoling and more time doing... well... whatever it is I used to do.
I'll now pause politely while all the mothers of older boys roll around holding their sides and laughing loudly.
Leave me with my little dream. Right now that, and the coffee, is all that gets me through the day.