Ouch.

New Scooter.

New Helmet.

New Kneepads.

Big Crash.

Two gashes on the chin.

Stomach slashed by wayward handlebar.

(Seriously, this sight was a tough one for Mom. And I'm no softie when it comes to first aid.)

Neosporin all around.

Poor Tucker.

"Mommy, I need kneepads for my face."

Not a bad idea, sweet boy.

Okay, Mommy, just close your eyes...

Tucker is fully independent in the skill of dressing himself, which is a welcome ability at our house.

But, perhaps thriving entirely on words of affirmation, he loves to make every garment a surprise. He grabs his clothes and scurries into the hallway, and presents himself numerous times, with one more item added to his body.

"Okay, Mommy, just close your eyes."

"Well, I can't close my eyes, because I'm changing Tyler's diaper."

"Mommy. Close your eyes."

"Okay, okay. They're closed." Or at least squinty.

[tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe] "Ta-Da!"

I 'open' my eyes to see Tucker, with his arms thrown wide in self amazement, wearing his shorts, indeed.

And we repeat the same Dog and Pony Show with the shirt, socks, shoes, pajama shirt, pajama pants, and/or any accompanying accessories.

I am learning: applauding for every garment takes just as long as putting it on him with my own two hands. But it does lack the flare.

And there's no turning back.

I do hope his college roommate forgives me for this trend of his.

Burnt Hair. Smells Gross.

So, in case you're ever in a hurry to prepare a belated dinner for three hungry men of varying shapes and sizes but ferociously competing appetites, and in case you're tempted to scurry around the kitchen and do things in half the time with half your brain, take a word from me:

Slow. Down. Sister.

That's exactly what I was doing tonight, and I even recall these wise words from my husband: "Babe, slow down. You might forget something."

By 'something,' I'm pretty sure he was referring to the oil I should have put in the pan before I heated the pan to atrocious degrees. Instead, I simply heated the pan. Searing hot metal, on my stovetop, without a single thing in it. That's a smoke alarm waiting to sound.

So then, when I needed to fry the chicken patties into the horrifically hot pan, I poured in the necessary oil... and flames instantly shot up to the ceiling.

I have learned a few lessons from this encounter with vegetable oil on hot metal.

It turns out, a grease fire will not burn itself out. So, waiting for it to stop burning on its own will merely fill the kitchen with black smoke. And cause significant damage to the cupboards and the microwave.

And, we now know, that the firemen aren't kidding. Water does not put out a grease fire. Only a lid on the flame, to suffocate the flame. (I tried water first. Not wise.)

And, in case you wondered, burnt hair is one of the worst smells in the history of mankind, and it remains to be seen how much damage was done to my goldilocks. So far, bits are breaking off in my hand every time I run my fingers through. That's maybe not a great sign, but I try not to overreact. Stay tuned.

And, aloe is a good cure for burns to the fingers and wrist, from carrying a wildly flaming pan across the kitchen and leaning over it to turn on the water, which did not in fact help the situation. Thank you, aloe. You have been my friend through many a sunburn and now kitchen disaster.

And, husbands come running when wives are screaming.

And, children who witness a direct encounter with open flames in the kitchen (however from a safe distance) will require many, many, many therapeutic conversations about the safety of our house, our kitchen, and our future meals. And, the older child is likely to tell his entire new community of preschoolers about the smoke alarms we still hear in our minds.

And, my maternal instincts kick into high gear when there is any impending threat to my family or my home. I would have sat on that fire if that's what it took. I'm not sure it would have helped, and it would have led to an entirely different blog post. But the point is: the depths of maternal fearlessness are deafening. Open flame, singed hair, and burnt arms notwithstanding.

And, if you're looking for a fast ticket to a dinner out, try nearly burning down the kitchen.

In all truthfulness, I am humbled by it all - by such a close encounter with that which can overtake in a heartbeat. It could have gotten so bad, so fast... and I got a small glimpse of that fear.

We are okay.

Well, except for my hair. I'll let you know.

A Preschooler in the Family

It's official! Tucker is a preschooler!

We talked about it all morning, through our fruit bars and Cheerios, through getting dressed and combing hair, through seatbelts and car rides: Today is Tucker's Big Day. We visited the classroom yesterday, so he had met his teacher and even played with some new friends. (He likes Mason and Natalie very much.) So he was Oh-So-Ready.

He was Mr. Enthusiasm... until we walked into the classroom. Nope. No, thank you. We'll try again next year.

The children were taking their places on the Circle Time Rug when we arrived, and Tucker was not at all interested in joining them. Tyler, on the other hand, pranced around the room. "Tucker! Your cubby! Come hang up your backpack!" (Tyler approaches life a bit differently.)

Miss Emily warmly called his name and encouraged him to join his friends. In response, he turned and began to climb up my torso, softly saying, "Mommy, kiss. Kiss. Kiss."

Translated: I'm going to need a million goodbye kisses to make it through this morning.

But Miss Emily is a total pro, as I will hereby and forever need every teacher of my children to be. She walked to him, scooped him up with a smile, and said, "Tuck, let's come over to the window and see if somebody walks by that you know."

Brilliant. And THAT was my cue to slip out the door and be the person he knows on the other side of the window. I love her already.

Tyler and I waved from the other side, gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, and headed down the hallway. Just like that, I heard twelve little voices say, "Good morning, Tucker!" Music to my ears. With that greeting, I promptly left my preschooler in a classroom all his own.

I applauded myself all the way to the car: job well done. Good work, Mom. No tears, no sadness, only proud sentiment. Good work.

Why won't my car shift into Drive? What the...? Oh. Tyler's side door is wide open. Perhaps I'll close it before I pull into oncoming traffic.

And perhaps my heart is a little more distracted than I thought.

I closed the door and drove on, still so impressed with myself and the hearty embrace of this next life stage, this new transition. I thought of Tucker's proud smile as he waved goodbye, of his new friends, and of his blue glittery name on the bulletin board.

He belongs here.

I prayed for him: for his confidence, his new friends, his safety, and that everyone might understand what he wants to say, since he's on his own without any translation assistance.

And I prayed for Miss Emily, the leader of this small troupe of explorers. And that's when I realized: I've been praying for Miss Emily for years. I have long prayed for the future teachers of our children: I have prayed that they would be perfectly placed, that they would be passionate experts in their field, and that they might have tender hearts to love our children individually and with great depth.

I've been praying for her for years. And I finally know her name.

Suddenly, Mommy of Steel was soft as a puddle. Bring on the tissues.

Tyler and I planned adventures of our own in Tucker's absence. I think Tyler will be okay with this new plan, though he asks about his built-in playmate about every ten minutes. Watching these two, I am learning that it is a gift to miss someone.

We picked him up at the end of the morning, and he was all smiles and confidence as he strode out the door. He seemed taller, smarter, and somehow older.



We did it. My big boy is a preschooler.