Monkey Bubby rides poor Roxie.*In exactly two weeks I get to see Bubby! Hooray, hooray! Preston has a big conference in San Diego at a fancy-schmancy resort and Megan gets to go along.

And I get to be flown to their home base to babysit Bubby for three days, all by myself!

We've had this planned for quite some time, but I'm starting to think Megan now has a few concerns about leaving me alone with Bubby for a few days. For my sake and sanity, not his.

A recent conversation:

Me: So, did you get the toy box put together? (Santa brought Bubby a new wooden toy box that also serves as bench seating.)

Megan: Yeah, we did. <hearty chuckle>

Me: And ... how does Bubby like it?

Megan: He loves it! We have it sitting by the couch and he first used it to jump from the toy box onto the couch. Then he decided to try jumping from the couch to the toy box. From there, he figured out how to jump directly off the toybox onto the floor.

Me: <stifling my "What the hell? He's still a baby! He's going to hurt himself!" instant reaction> Oh really ... hmmmmm ...

Megan: But we LET him do that. That's just the way we do things, Mom. We let him be ... a monkey.

Me: <silence as I try to decide if my Bubby is a bratty terror who gets to run wild throughout the house or if he's a tad too rambunctious and needs to be tamed before he hurts himself ... or both>

Megan: <in her "treading lightly" voice> I'm telling you that because I just want you to know that he's allowed to do that. He gets to be a monkey in our house, and I'm sure it's going to give you a heart attack.

Me: Oh-kay ... So, does Bubby help put his toys in the toy box? <stealthily changing the subject>

Sheesh. Seems my daughter thinks I can't handle a monkey of a boy. A wild, crazy, physically daring little boy who pulls stools down on his head, rides the dog as if Roxie were a bucking bronco, and regularly sports bruises, bangs and rug burns from his acrobatics.

She thinks I'm too paranoid about kids getting hurt. I get it. I can read between the lines.

Yes, I'm a paranoid mother who suffered hysterical panic attacks at a child's slightest veer from a stationary position feared for the safety of my little ones ... and had ridiculous unfounded phobias about them falling down -- or up! -- stairs (thank God Bubby has no stairs in his house) ... and gave regular thanks that I had daughters who couldn't go out for football where they'd surely suffer concussions or worse. (Although Andie didn't fare much better with soccer; and Brianna did break bones in track; and Megan had her fingers smashed flat -- honest to God -- in a bout on the playground.)

Okay, so derring do scares me a bit when it comes to my babies.

But hey, doesn't Megan remember that we got a massive trampoline when the girls were preteens? And it didn't even have one of those safety-net surrounds! And I didn't wrap them in bubble-wrap before they climbed aboard.

See ... I can do danger!

Although I must admit: There were so many rules and regulations surrounding the use of the death trap bouncing mat of joy that it was probably not much fun for anyone -- least of all the friends and neighborhood kids who weren't allowed to even remove their shoes and pretend to set foot on it without their parents' signatures on the three-page liability release for kids who become paralyzed or die permission slip I handed out to one and all.

See, Megan. I can handle monkeys. I can do danger. It just has to be safe danger!

*Luckily Roxie thinks Bubby's hugs make up for the wild ride.

Today's question from Zobmondo's 'Would You Rather...?' board game:

Would you rather live for 10 additional years at the top of your game -OR- for 30 additional years in which you have moments of brilliance amidst trials and tragedies?

I vote for the second. I'd like as many years as possible to see how fabulously life unfolds for my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. And since trials and tragedies are part and parcel of life as it is now, I don't really see any need to trade in 30 years of that for 10 years of being at the top of my game.

Update

on 2010-01-07 19:27 by Lisa Carpenter

Oh ho ho!! I just got a phone call from Megan. She read this post ... and proceeded to tell me that she'd been forgetting (yeah, right) to call and let me know that soon after the conversation above, Bubby proceeded to jump from the back of the couch onto the floor and LANDED FACE FIRST, BIT THROUGH HIS LIP AND MEGAN THOUGHT SHE WAS GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE HIM IN FOR STITCHES!

So Mama/Grandma's not so damn paranoid after all, my little Meggie Beggie!

Even Preston said to Megan that evening, "Uh, maybe we shouldn't be letting Bubby do that anymore."

(Brianna voiced that maybe Megan kept "forgetting" to tell me about the incident because she didn't want to admit I was RIGHT!)

Luckily Bubby didn't need stitches nor did he break his new little teeth ... this time!

Frankly, I'm not sure I believe Megan's claims. How can my Bubby be anything but absolutely precious all the time!?There are so many challenges that come with parenting, beginning from the moment the baby arrives. Most of those early challenges are related to the fact the baby can't talk, can't say what's going on. Is he hungry or hurt? Sick or sleepy?

Moms (and dads) muddle through the best they can, anxiously awaiting the day their little one can talk.

Little do they know that it's once their sweet snookums can talk that the real work fun begins.

Seems Megan is just now learning that.

Bubby is nearly 19 months old. And he's learned how to communicate -- sometimes in real words, sometimes in real whines, and sometimes in all-out, throw-myself-on-the-floor, I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now-dammit tantrums.

In other words, he's hitting the terrible twos.

"What happened to my sweet boy?" Megan asked me yesterday.

"Sounds like he's definitely his mama's son," I told her.

"Yeah, that's all I can think about," she replied.

She remembers the screaming, crying, whining, door-slamming, "I hate yous!" and running to her room. Wait ... those were the teen years.

No, it's the pictures she's thinking about, she says. All the pictures we have of her as a toddler and little girl, crying because life was so absolutely horrible when she didn't get her way. Or get all the attention -- from the dog, her mom, her dad, her little sister, her big sister, anyone daring enough to visit the house.

Full disclosure: In all honesty, Megan didn't cry and throw fits because she was a brat; she cried all the damn time because she was truly heartbroken, my hypersensitive little Meggie. She regularly handed over her heart to anyone within arm's length, then suffered utter devastation when they didn't accept -- or understand -- the gift they were being given.

And now, with Bubby using all his emotions and communication skills to his full advantage, all Megan can think about are the pictures.

All I can think about is that it's payback time.

(And that she's pretty darn lucky her first child is a boy because the hell fun will really begin when she has a hormone-raging, mama-testing little girl!)

Today's question from "If ... (Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you had to choose the worst song ever composed, which one would you pick?

I'm sure there are others but as of right now, just because it's still fresh in my mind with the recent holidays, it's that absolutely stupid, sickening, ear worm of a Christmas tune (if you can call it that) by Paul McCartney that goes ... "Sim-ply hav-ing a WONderful Christmas time." AACK! I hate that song and turned off the radio or changed the channel every time it came on.