Remember how the velociraptors in Jurassic Park tested for weakness by throwing themselves against the perimeter?
This is what my toddler does.
She watches for the baby lock to be left off of the bathroom cabinet so she can grab a Q-tip and stick it in her ear. Her eyes are peeled for moments when the children’s ibuprofen is left unguarded. She grabs the bottle and takes action: turn it twist it turn it twist it. Mom’s coming: There isn’t a second to waste. Yes, she can open it.
Everything that was out of reach two months ago is easy prey.
She’s captivated by watching flies bounce against the window. Twice, she has caught one between her thumb and forefinger like the baby stealth-ninja she is.
She has learned from the book Good Night Gorilla how to steal keys out of our pockets.
She can open the sliding glass door by herself. I am coping by teaching her how to watch the dog for cues that he wants to be let in or out and also how to close it.
All of this, has my nerves somewhat undone. I am not even aware of my constant state of hyper-vigilance until I get an hour to myself to notice the incessant ringing in my ears. My left eye has been twitching for two days. In sane moments, when baby A is strapped into a car seat or stroller and eating applesauce snacks, I just breathe. I roll my shoulders back. I look up and try to stretch out the tightness from my throat and chest. This peace will not last.
I have let this post sit unfinished for a week, waiting for an ending to come to me: A snap of wit or Great Truth to wrap up with a bow. Maybe if I could relax I would think of something, but as it is, I will leave these words hanging in the air like an unresolved chord.
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