Yesterday he took a good, long nap. Almost three hours. But from the time that he woke up until he went to bed he was non-stop spaz. We went outside to work on the playhouse some, and very little actual work got done because I spent most of my time unwedging him from things.
First, he decided that he needed to climb a tree.
This tree. A redbud. Maybe. I'm never very clear on tree names because, on the whole, they all do about the same thing in my world: provide an obstacle to mow around.I have to admit that my feelings towards tree climbing are a bit dubious. On the one hand, tree climbing is a good, wholesome, traditional "boy" thing to do with an afternoon. Norman Rockwell would have approved of the activity. It also, I suppose, trains some coordination skills and teaches kids valuable lessons about planning ahead and gravity. On the other hand, Gabe is terrible at planning ahead and gravity has never been his friend. We've so far managed to avoid breaking any of his limbs (I say "we" but his role in the prevention has been on an unwilling participation level only), but we've also managed to keep him from being higher than a couple feet off the ground. Now that he's branching out . . . ha ha . . . it's probably only a matter of time before a trip to the hospital.
Especially if he keeps going after it like he did yesterday. He tackled this tree with gusto if not exactly prowess or skill.
Really, I have nobody to blame but myself because I'm the one that pointed the ideal climbing nature of that particular tree out to him. It seemed like an innocent enough move at the time, and I was doing it to protect another, smaller tree from Gabe's wrath. The tree he originally picked out is only about four feet tall and just a couple years old. He would have destroyed it. And when I spotted him trying to "climb" it (he wasn't able to do anything more than straddle one of the small branches that was close to the ground because the tree is only about an inch thick at its base), I pointed him to the far more substantial redbud. I thought, "No worries. That first fork is a few feet off the ground, still too high for him to get into."
So he asked me to put him up in the fork of the tree to start off. "Nope," I said. "Tree climbing isn't a team sport. If you're going to do it, you'll have to do it on your own." I thought this would buy me a few more months, anyway. Or, if nothing else, keep him discouraged enough that he would find something else to do and I could work on the playhouse.
Except he found a chair. So he used the chair to get into the fork of the tree. But that was as far as he was ever able to make it. And, obviously, it was too high for him to get down from--which he couldn't do anyway because as soon as he got in there he wedged either his crotch or his shoes into the fork in such a way that he couldn't move anymore. I have to give the kids props for trying, though, and sticking with it when it didn't work. Every time he got stuck, he yelled to me to get him down, and when I put him on the ground he declared that he "needed to try it again," always with the same result. So, every five minutes or so for a half an hour I was called over to free him up, and eventually he gave up.
After the tree, he decided to feed the chickens some "salad," one of his favorite things to do right now. He walked around the yard, picking grass and throwing it through the fence to the chickens. But this time it only kept him busy for a few minutes.
I was cutting a piece of particle board for the wall and out of the corner of my eye I saw Gabe on the picnic table. He sort of seemed to be jumping up and down. Dancing maybe? Or just being weird. Who knew. Because being on top of furniture is pretty common for him, and I didn't see where he could really hurt the picnic table being up there, I instantly dismissed it and went back to my own business.
Not a minute later I heard, "Uh, Dad? Help?" in a not very loud voice--as if he knew he needed help but REALLY didn't want to face the lecture that was going to come attached.
This was another stuck-in-a-rocking-chair moment for Gabe as he was forced to remain stuck until I had time to go inside and get the camera (which I should have done anyway to get a picture of him wedged in the tree, but I figured I would have LOTS of opportunities for wedged-in-tree pictures as the years go by). Here's what I found:
For some reason, he refused to smile for the picture.
He didn't REALLY need my help, as he pulled it out this way on his own, but I'm glad he called me all the same because I wouldn't have gotten the picture of him if he hadn't. Really, he does a great job of letting us know when he's done something he knows he's not supposed to do. I guess that's the advantage of there not being huge, terrible consequences from me whenever he screws up. He knows the worst he'll get is an earful or maybe some time out, so he hasn't discovered that it's easier just to act like something didn't happen and then lie about it when I inevitably discover it. That's good, right?
Especially if he keeps going after it like he did yesterday. He tackled this tree with gusto if not exactly prowess or skill.
Really, I have nobody to blame but myself because I'm the one that pointed the ideal climbing nature of that particular tree out to him. It seemed like an innocent enough move at the time, and I was doing it to protect another, smaller tree from Gabe's wrath. The tree he originally picked out is only about four feet tall and just a couple years old. He would have destroyed it. And when I spotted him trying to "climb" it (he wasn't able to do anything more than straddle one of the small branches that was close to the ground because the tree is only about an inch thick at its base), I pointed him to the far more substantial redbud. I thought, "No worries. That first fork is a few feet off the ground, still too high for him to get into."
So he asked me to put him up in the fork of the tree to start off. "Nope," I said. "Tree climbing isn't a team sport. If you're going to do it, you'll have to do it on your own." I thought this would buy me a few more months, anyway. Or, if nothing else, keep him discouraged enough that he would find something else to do and I could work on the playhouse.
Except he found a chair. So he used the chair to get into the fork of the tree. But that was as far as he was ever able to make it. And, obviously, it was too high for him to get down from--which he couldn't do anyway because as soon as he got in there he wedged either his crotch or his shoes into the fork in such a way that he couldn't move anymore. I have to give the kids props for trying, though, and sticking with it when it didn't work. Every time he got stuck, he yelled to me to get him down, and when I put him on the ground he declared that he "needed to try it again," always with the same result. So, every five minutes or so for a half an hour I was called over to free him up, and eventually he gave up.
After the tree, he decided to feed the chickens some "salad," one of his favorite things to do right now. He walked around the yard, picking grass and throwing it through the fence to the chickens. But this time it only kept him busy for a few minutes.
I was cutting a piece of particle board for the wall and out of the corner of my eye I saw Gabe on the picnic table. He sort of seemed to be jumping up and down. Dancing maybe? Or just being weird. Who knew. Because being on top of furniture is pretty common for him, and I didn't see where he could really hurt the picnic table being up there, I instantly dismissed it and went back to my own business.
Not a minute later I heard, "Uh, Dad? Help?" in a not very loud voice--as if he knew he needed help but REALLY didn't want to face the lecture that was going to come attached.
This was another stuck-in-a-rocking-chair moment for Gabe as he was forced to remain stuck until I had time to go inside and get the camera (which I should have done anyway to get a picture of him wedged in the tree, but I figured I would have LOTS of opportunities for wedged-in-tree pictures as the years go by). Here's what I found:
For some reason, he refused to smile for the picture.
He didn't REALLY need my help, as he pulled it out this way on his own, but I'm glad he called me all the same because I wouldn't have gotten the picture of him if he hadn't. Really, he does a great job of letting us know when he's done something he knows he's not supposed to do. I guess that's the advantage of there not being huge, terrible consequences from me whenever he screws up. He knows the worst he'll get is an earful or maybe some time out, so he hasn't discovered that it's easier just to act like something didn't happen and then lie about it when I inevitably discover it. That's good, right?And here's his explanation of what he was doing when he punched a hole through the picnic table.
Or maybe he just doesn't lie to cover things up yet because he's not very good at it. I'm reasonably sure that he was actually just stomping on this soft spot in our picnic table--which we've known for a couple years needs to be completely rebuilt, but who wants to take the time to pull apart and then put back together a picnic table when it can still SORT OF perform its function? Now, I guess, we're not going to have much choice.
And, no matter how much of a dork he is, I'm still going to keep trying to force naps on him until he's in school. It's just my way.
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