It has been well over a week since the incident took place but I keep thinking back on it fondly. Part of me is glad I didn't have the video camera because it is a memory I think will be best served playing on a loop in my head. Hopefully, by writing it down I will help cement it in my long term memory, or at least have a place where I can go back and read about it.
The story is, of course, about Gavin. In the evenings Gavin comes toddling into the kitchen when he hears one us unlocking the safety latch to the doors under the kitchen sink. Recently he rushes over so he can try and get his hands on the dish washing tablets in a big round container with a clear plastic lid that he likes to take off. That night was no different so instead of fighting with him to get the soap tabs out of his hands I asked if he could help me feed the dog.
Turns out helping mommy to feed the dogs was his pleasure. I handed him the blue plastic cup filled with dog kibble. It wasn't Kea's usual dog food - her regular food is for large breeds so the kibbles are huge - not this stuff. The kibble looked like cat food. Of course, Kea's giant kibble has never stopped Gwen (our fat cat) from trying to eat it.
Before I could get to Kea's dish to hold it up for Gavin to lessen the spill factor he was at her dish and dumping the kibble "into" her bowl. I think maybe a quarter of the kibble landed in the dog's bowl.
For several reasons I profusely praised Gavin for his wonderful help. Some of the reasons for profusely thanking my toddler for spilling dog food all over the floor:
- He's 23 months old - not even 2 years.
- He gets very upset with himself for not getting all of the kibble into the bowl - he will pick up every last piece and place it in the dog's bowl - he used to stand there holding the empty cup and just cry when he spilled.
- I asked for it.
Normally, I would just let the dog eat the kibble off the floor, she is a dog after all, but the kibble was so tiny and it was everywhere. I didn't relish the idea of mopping thick, viscous dog drool with kibble crumbs off the floor so I grabbed a broom and swept the kibble into a pile.
Gavin saw me get the broom out and disappeared into his bedroom for a brief moment. When I looked up again he was marching with a purposeful gait back into the kitchen with very stern look on his face all the while holding his little toy broom high in the air. He went right to work sweeping the neat pile of dog kibble I just mounded up all over the kitchen and dining room. The kibble was now even more spread out.
It was the sweetest thing to see him trying to clean up his mess - hoisting his broom over head and smacking it down on the floor over and over in an attempt to help clean up. Sensing he was getting a bit frustrated with his cleaning skills I thanked him for his help and stood behind him and guided the broom with his chubby little hands firmly clasped on the handle and helped him sweep the kibbles into another pile. Then I quickly took the broom back to his room.
My little guy really doesn't like disorder - when he is done with his crayons he will line them up. Just today at dinner he picked up the peas that he had spit out onto his high chair tray and put them on his plate with the rest of the peas. I even saw him eyeing the other three peas I picked up off the floor and set on the butcher block as a temporary holding place until dinner was over. If he could I think he would have put those peas back on his plate, too.
I think his dislike for disorder is a Haas trait. It could come from Ryan's side but I know I have some crazies on my side of the family when it comes to order. First and foremost, Grandma Martha - my dad's mom. Her house was always clean. Not just clean but c-l-e-a-n. She passed the clean gene onto my dad. Of course, I don't remember much of his neatnik ways but I've been told a story or two. Well, my mom was the same way, too. So she and my dad passed that gene onto my older brother Ike who would wake me and my younger brother up early in the morning when we were little so we could surprise mom with a super clean house - although I don't know what there was to clean since it was always clean.
Something happened and the gene completely skipped me and went straight to Joel. He and Ike always had the cleanest rooms. Mom and Dad never had to hassle them about cleaning their rooms. I had always chalked it up to them being boys and having boring stuff. Mom would sometimes tell me that she just didn't get how we were related sometimes because I was always so messy. My room was constantly a disaster. Poor mom - she tried. She really, really did. I remember her lessons: "April, when you are done with one thing you put it away before getting out the next."
It has taken 32 years but I think I'm slowly starting to tame my inner slob. Hmm, I don't think taming of the slob is really the best way to describe being more orderly - more like whipping the slob. The slob is morphing into an adult who likes a bit of order, or at the very least, less chaos.
To add to Gavin's woes the poor child has a pack rat father (who would vehemently deny this claim, preferring to think of himself as frugal and not wasteful about stuff we could likely use one day but if the shoe fits...) who is slowly being tormented by his wife's exorcising of her own pack rat demons and as a result is slowly freeing himself of stuff. It is my fantasy to get rid of everything we don't use. The rule that personal organizers (and sane people) have is: if you haven't used it in a year then you don't need it.
My biggest space hog are all of my clothes of yesteryear. 3 sizes ago. I have 3 wardrobes because I have 3 different sizes I'm clinging to. My goal has been and always will be to fit back into those clothes. But I think its time for me to bite the bullet and to get rid of them. Even if - I mean when - I fit back in them they are so outdated I wouldn't want to wear them anyway. Maybe I can purge them tomorrow.
Hmm, I went from a heart warming story about my son to purging my room of ill fitting clothes. I wonder if his thoughts will be as scattered as mine or if he will have the engineer brain of his father. I've given Ryan a hard time lately about his engineer brain. When we are hiring someone to do a job around the house or buy a new something for us or the house he can think of 10 times as many questions as I do about the person/job/product. Now I try to anticipate what his questions will be but, lo, my brain is not wired the same way as his. Sometimes when I call a person back for what feels like the tenth time to ask another question I say, "sorry, my husband is an engineer and he thought of another question." The person on the other end usually quakes in fear knowing full well they are going to be under the microscope. If I can't handle asking any more questions I pass the job back to Ryan to pick the person's brain because I also forget half of what they tell me by time we are off the phone anyway.
I told Ryan this the other day about people groaning when I tell them I'm asking a million questions because he is an engineer and instantly felt bad. There is nothing wrong with making sure the service or product you are purchasing checks out. His questions have saved us money and lots of headaches. Why, just the other day, his engineer brain figured out a way - over the phone - to get the Bob duallie stroller to fit in the back of our car because I and woman selling me the stroller couldn't figure out how to get it in the hatch and close the door.
If he was a little bit smarter he wouldn't have figured it out and left me to buy a much cheaper stroller. : ) One of the rare times his engineer brain cost us more money.
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