Birthday, Cows, Tadpoles and a Tasmanian Devil

Nineteen years ago today I gave birth to the ugliest baby you have ever seen. Born with a pointed head, purple bruised face, and dimpled chin, he cried loudly and refused to nurse for the first forty-eight hours of life. I fell madly in love with him. He is now my handsome, well-spoken, intelligent, basketball-freak-of-nature oldest son Carter. The dimple is still in his chin although occasionally hidden from view by his beard. He has grown into a well respected young man and I am proud to call him my friend. I ask his advice on a regular basis and trust his opinion. What more could a mother want in her oldest son? I love you Carter and am so proud of you!

Now let me tell you about the whirlwind weekend I just experienced! I agreed several weeks ago to babysit for some dear friends. Several weeks ago meaning two months. Two months ago seemed like a long time, well, two months ago. I now realize two months is just a blink. Quick and gone. Early Saturday morning the Tasmanian Devil arrived at my house, rested and energized from a substantial nights sleep and eager to greet the day with a fury. My own boys, grounded for the weekend to lend their assistance, helped me greet the little angel into our home. It has been a few years since I had a four-year-old boy in my world. I had forgotten the damage that can be ensued in forty-eight hours. Physically, emotionally, and structurally. The little blond haired blue-eyed dynamo that looked so innocent at my back door packed a vicious punch. Oscar, my miniature dachshund wanna be pit bull, climbed in his kennel whimpering and locked the door behind him. MDH had conveniently scheduled to teach a CPR class, one that could not for any reason whatsoever, even death, be rescheduled. The big sissy! There he was teaching CPR to a group of folks (including infant CPR), while I was home experiencing cardiac arrest (have I mentioned that I have a few OCD problems). OCD and a four-year-old boy are not heart or sanity healthy combinations.

Saturday was a beautiful day in my dot-on-the-map and to fill some time, we took little mister to the family farm. Our plans were to feed the cows, fish, hike and generally waste time enjoying the sunshine. Turns out the cows did not realize they were the Saturday afternoon matinee. Not only did we have to walk all over the 100-acre wood to find the beasts, we had to run from them when they spotted us. Our giant bovine pets were happy to see us; they stampeded us back to the barn for sweet feed. Ever seen a woman run from cows wearing flip-flops and dragging a screaming four-year-old? It is not pretty.

The pond was murky and the banks were muddy from recent rain; yet, this fact did not stop us from fishing. I had forgotten that fishing takes quiet and patience, something that a four-year-old boy does not possess. He and I ended up sitting in the quaint musty barn, amid the straw, dirt, barn swallows, cow manure and other barn paraphernalia playing with Matchbox cars while the more mature fellows tried their fishing luck to no avail.

Peace eludes me wherever I go, I just cannot leave status quo alone. Really, if I would occasionally weigh the consequences of my actions, the forces of nature might work for me instead of against me, but where would the fun in that be. A girl has to do, what a girl is compelled to do and for me that meant catching tadpoles, which meant walking along a muddy pond bank, again in flip-flops, carrying a five-gallon bucket. I wanted to view the wonder of nature up close and personal in her metamorphic greatness. The ponds edges were thick with black tadpoles. I have always been fascinated with these little sperm like creatures (just keeping it real). I have tried several times to keep tadpoles and watch them morph into toads or frogs (you cannot tell at the sperm, I mean tadpole stage, what they are going to be you know). I have actually kept them alive until back legs begin to form, but they eventually die. I figured that if I could catch several of the little wigglers, one might survive. And that is exactly what I did! On my hands and knees, in the mud, I scooped up several hundred of the little things, along with pond scum, and if you believe in evolution, a person or two.

I placed my homeschool science experiment in the five-gallon bucket. I then gathered chairs, kids, Matchbox cars, drinks, sippy cups, and secured the whole mess in my red Cadillac Deville and took the winding curving back roads home at a good 50 mph sloshing tadpoles, pond water, and chocolate milk as I drove stopping only for fried okra at a local diner, the only food that little mister will eat. For what purpose was all of this, you may ask. To wear little mister out so that he would sleep Saturday night! And he did...with me...along with fifteen matchbox cars, two stuffed dogs, and his blankie. He smelled sweetly of baby lotion from his bath. He curled up in the crook of my arm and occasionally tickled his cherub face with the tag from his blankie. The little stinker had the nerve on Sunday to complain that I snored too loudly! All but about twenty tadpoles disappeared into oblivion. Did they eat one another or did a local raccoon have a midnight snack? It will remain a mystery. Life is sweetly back to “normal” in my world today, but what fun it was to play for the weekend.

Thanks for reading, Rosie.