Clap If You Believe

It seems every weekend at the farm is spent attempting to shield my napping son from the sounds of various tools de home improvement. Usually, I blast Spanish music from the clock radio as it is the only station the thing picks up without static, and today, it seems to be working effectively. The hub has spent endless weekends out here sawing and waking the bub, and only today did I think to ask him to move his saws and tools to the other corner of the house, away from underneath the bub's window where they've resided for the last three months. Duh. So, at last, the bub has been able to sleep without being awoken mid-nap to the sound of merengue intertwined with the pneumatic nailer.

Previous to the nap however, the bub and I did what the bub and I do out at the farm of late, and that is we headed deep into the property to look for adventure. Having been reared on 25 wooded acres, I know a thing or two about escaping into the thicket all day and not returning until I was caked in mud and half dead from a life-threatening incident. Seeing as the hub spent his childhood weekends coming out here and frolicking on 400 acres, we are both on the same page as far as wanting the bub to get lost in his own world. Any given weekend, you could find me and my sisters deep in the marsh battling cottonmouths or flipping our Boston Whaler. And the hub's dad used to drop him out here with a shotgun and a sack full of Army-issue M-80s (otherwise known as a quarter sticks of dynamite) and let him and his friends have at it. My sisters and I were usually looking for mythical fairies, ghosts and swamp monsters, while the hub and his brother were in search of rattlesnakes, armadillos and small furry creatures to skin, but the end result was the same... great, great times. Man, those are the childhood recollections you hold onto and miss. Those are the days I look back on and wish I could find myself in again. Those are my deserted-island memories. Not that I am wishing a river capsize or small explosion on the bub, but those kind of kid adventures are vital for growing up a complete and total person.

Sooo, a few months back I noticed that the bub would start taking off with the dogs. I'd turn my back for a second, and the bub would be halfway down the rode, heading into the woods with good 'ole Sugar and Spanky. And watching him, I began to realize that even at 2 and a half, he was looking to get lost in it all.

Though it will be years before I'm ready to let him take off into the bush alone, I can at least chaperone him on some minor forest encounters. We've taken to walking down the road in search of "treasure" in the dry creekbed. "This is my big adventure Mom!" he screams as we turn the corner and head into the oak trees. Usually, all we find are some rusty but detailed pieces of iron or an old tin can or two, but still treasure to the bub none-the-less. We'll only stay gone an hour or so, climbing trees and hiking the small hill behind the house, but when I see how intent and excited he is, I know it seems like way more to him.

I know someday he's not gonna want me tagging along on his big adventures. That moment when Peter Pan arrives at the window sill and Wendy is too old to join him will come soon enough for me, but for now, I'l savor it while I can.