Riley came in and said "Mom. Reagan is throwing things at me" Thinking he meant snowballs, I went outside to tell Reagan to stop. This is what I found:
I inwardly groaned. It looked like a Barbie massacre had taken place. Barbies all over, including one dangling dangerously from the grill. All I could do was shake my head and ask Reagan to go outside and clean it all up. But first stop and smile for the camera. Please. To which he willingly obliged.
He of course picked them all up and was appropriately punished for his deeds. Always finding the silver lining, all I could think was "thank goodness Rhianna wasn't here during the mayhem or I would have one distressed child on my hands." I of course conveniently did not mention all of the events of our day when she came home!
One difficult night at bedtime, I told Reagan to just go upstairs and sleep wherever he wanted to sleep. It was hour 3 of bedtime and I had essays to write, laundry to fold, dishes to do, clothes to lay out, floors to sweep. (You get the picture.) Anyhow, exasperated I told Reagan to just sleep wherever it fancied him to sleep. So.he.did.
These next photos are over a year old. But they must be shared. So that you, my dear reader, can understand the full effect of this boy's creative skills. And to also understand why some days I cling to my sanity with white knuckled fists.
I had been working on a swirled painting project and needed one layer to dry. So I just put a lid on my paint container to which Reagan easily opened up and poured into the paint can and started painting away. I was in the other room (thinking he was in bed) writing yet another essay. Rhianna was in the living room sleeping under a table with a makeshift 'tent' and a vaporizer going. I couldn't hear a noise. Especially when the little boy in question is very good at doing his work silently.
I will never know, nor comprehend how he did the next step without making a disastrous mess. But he did. And to that I give him kudos.
Somehow.Someway. He carried the paint tray, full of paint, with a roller in it UP the stairs and did some artwork up there. Without one drip on the carpet. None. I can't do that trying to be neat with a sheet down for protection. Isn't he amazing?
As soon as I saw what he did, I gasped in horror and took the roller from him. I cleaned him up and told him to go to bed. He cried "but mommy! I"m not done painting!"
I must confess I had some pride in my heart that night. Pride in myself for not completely spazing out. I think I was simply in shock. I have fully recovered and the walls have been repainted. (I was taking down the bathroom wallpaper anyhow.) It has all been fixed.
He was punished, but I will have the pictures to look at and laugh when I need to put life into perspective. They are only walls, painted by little hands that I adore and treasure. The same little hands that tried to tell mommy "I love you" in sign language one day but wasn't quite sure how to do it:
The same hands that writes mommy love notes at work:
Reagan is my baby. My only companion most days. My son. I adore this little man of mine. He's already had some hard knocks at his young age, but I know that God will use them to strengthen him and help him be the man he is supposed to be. And something makes me think that God will use him in such a special way that only Reagan could fill the shoes. I'm so blessed to be the one that God gave this child to. I may be the one that has to follow him where he goes cleaning up his messes, but I am also the one who is looked at by those chocolaty eyes with adoration. And there is nothing better than that.
|Love you Chip!|