Miss Adventure

Eric and I have taken to calling our youngest "Miss Adventure." (Or is that misadventure?)

The other day she climbed up onto the back of the sofa and onto the 4" wide window ledge behind it. When I found her, she was standing on the window ledge, pressed up against the window with her arms out wide like Spiderman. Except she was licking the glass. There was a line of spit that stretched from her mouth to about where her bellybutton touched the glass. So when she decided it was time to retreat, she took a step back onto the couch. Then she put her little foot back behind her and realized that there was nothing there for her to climb down onto, so she put both feet back up onto the back of the couch. She then considered her options. Rather than cry out for help, she decided to take the plunge. She simply stepped back into nothingness and landed softly onto the pillows on the couch. I have very mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I was glad she didn't get hurt. On the other hand, I sort of wish she had so that she could learn a lesson and (hopefully) not do it again. On the third hand (remember I'm a mother of three so I can do that), I really wish I had the lack of experience to think that stepping into nothingness might just be the right thing to do. It reminds me of a quote I've often heard: When you come to the end of all the light you know, and it's time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: Either you will be given something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly. — Edward Teller

Hydrodynamics

Spit sinks.

That is the wisdom that was thrust upon me by my son who had turned five less than a week before. This coming about two and a half minutes into a fountain experience at the local upscale mall with his good friend, the young Mr. Nathan King, currently four years of age.

He came at me with all the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a young scientist who had just made is first official discovery. His taut arms stretched up to about his own eye-level, hands cupped into small parenteses around his cherub-like face. "Spit sinks." The words stole my heart.

Since he's my second boy, I knew immediately from whence the discovery came. Being a proper mother in a proper mall, I admonished him not to spit in the fountain again. He held firm. "But it sinks! It really does!" My reply was quick and simple. "Yes, I'm glad to hear that you have learned that important lesson in life. And now that you know that, you don't need to try it again."

(Please don't anyone inform him about the whole idea of scientific facts requiring repeatable outcomes.)