I have three children – 2 teens and my little squishy. My little squishy was a surprise. A big surprise. And karma has a way of teaching you a lesson when you don’t plan well.
My little squishy is actually named Lucas. He is 9 now. Lucas has had a number of names over the years. Once, as an infant, he stopped breathing. We called him Blucas. When he has a cold he is Mucas. When he pukes he’s Flucas. Or Spewcas. But most often he is You Little Shit.cas.
Lucas was born to keep me on my toes. To make sure I never became complacent. I knew we were in trouble from the get go, but this fact was made abundantly clear when he was 9 months old.
At 9 months he was already walking. Of COURSE he was already walking at 9 months. *siiiigh* One day when I was
cleaning cooking standing in the kitchen, I let him into the back yard to play. Now don’t panic – we live in southern California. Our back yard is the size of your master bedroom.
After a few minutes I looked out and realized I couldn’t see him. So I walked out the door and called his name. Nothing. I peeked around the corner. Nothing. The yard is not that big. Where on earth could he have gone?
Then I heard a giggle. I looked up into our play fort – the one that can only be accessed by a rope ladder. There he was, at NINE MONTHS, atop the fort, smiling quite smugly.
Yep – I knew RIGHT THEN that I was in for a loooooooong childhood. And he hasn’t disappointed.