Tornado E has always been a risk taker. I blame it on his first playmates. They were ten; he was one; they treated him like he was eight. Whatever they could do, Tornado E and the kids believed he could do it too. So I watched them play together with my heart in my mouth, fearing if I said something the delicate balance would crumple and someone would get hurt. Within moments, I realized, Tornado E could do it. It didn’t matter if it was climbing up and down stairs, through banisters, down beds, across rock walls, the kid could do it. He had grace, strength, and confidence. He acted like a second-born. And I knew I was screwed.
Tornado S was not as graceful. Watching him do the “dangerous” things his brother did, I knew he was just one wabbly misstep away from really hurting himself. But he had the confidence. If Brother can do it, then so the f- can I. I watched with my heart in my mouth, ready to spring into action. Other than stitches at 14 months because he fell into the corner of the coffee table, everything was fine.
Then came Tornado A. I know. He hasn’t had a lot of time to cause me worry. But my God, this kid is like a bat out of Hell. I swear, he’s out looking for trouble.
Guess how many times Tornado E and Tornado S rolled or fell of the bed. None.
Tornado A: 5. FIVE.
The sick thing is he did it himself. He rolled off at the hotel back in November. We cuddled him and mourned our stupidity and put him back, keeping a sharper eye on him. AND THE KID DID THE EXACT SAME THING! He looked at me as to say, “I’m really sure gravity is no longer working, Mother. I’m going to roll onto the air now.” I know. I’m a bad mother. I was right next to him, throwing my hair into a pony tail. Apparently trying to block him with my leg, only slowed him down. The first time was The Husband’s fault; he was next to the bed on the phone. Apparently, I should have done the silent military signals to tell him to watch the baby.
Guess how many times Tornado A has pinched his fingers. 3. THREE.
In things we had when Tornado S was a baby. Tornado S never pinched his fingers. After I soothe the pinch and put Tornado A down again, I watched him like a hawk (because of the bed issue), and sure enough, the kid scrambled back to the scene of the crime to try to do it all over again. What was the pain not excruciating enough for you?
Or take the rocks. We have a rock backyard. (Not our fault; it’s a rental, and it sucks.) Tornado A crawled out back to be with his brothers. I allowed him to try crawling across the rocks so he can learn “Hey, this kind of hurts.” He got about two crawls out and started to cry. I picked him up and placed him on the porch with a few toys. I turned to see the newest sand box creation, only to hear Tornado A’s cry for help. You were just there! And if I’m not careful, he’ll do it again and again.
I don’t know what I have on my hands, except Trouble. I shudder to think what will happen when testosterone floods the risk part of his brain. At this point, all I know is getting a pool now would be negligible homicide. Lord, I’ve got to go find a pen of some kind for the kid.
P.S. Is it wrong to be woken up at 6:15 by a chattering baby, a snuggling three-year-old, and sick, whiny five-year-old and wish desperately you were in Hawaii away from all this crap? On second thought, to wish you were ANYWHERE but dealing with that crap?