I really do love the wee hours of the morning. It’s when I get to write, think about what’s going on in my life, uninterrupted by the phone, TV or the needs of anyone else, except the occasional head bump to my arm while I’m typing by Simon. He’s always here with me, by my side on the bed, attempting to use his opposable thumbs to edit if he doesn’t like a particular phrase. Tough room to be sure. He’s pure and simple, when he wants attention, he just head butts me, even if I’m in a sound sleep or I wake up to a claw in my head, nudging me gently awake.

I don’t sleep much,but I do cat nap. I’ll grab a few hours, wake up and enjoy the stillness of the night, and the occasional infomercial, until I tire a few hours later and grab another hour or so. I’ve been this way my whole life. I remember being four years old and my mother completely vexed with me as I would never take a nap. I just don’t require a lot of sleep, and god forbid I miss something going on in the world.

As I look at the time, 5:55 a.m. I’ve already been up for well over an hour, figuring out my day, and reflecting on my week. The possibility exists that I will be watching a four year old boy today, my roommates son, while his dad runs up to his rental property to clean it out for the cleaning woman. Hah. I’ve seen his cleaning woman and the pics of her tramp stamp in his Iphone, but whatever..call it what you will, no judgments here. Actually it is on the up an up as he was going to take little guy with him, but I thought it was just be too difficult for him to get done what he needs to do with a four year old underfoot. He didn’t want to ask me to “babysit”, I don’t think of that in those terms.

I like kids, and I thought it would be a good time today, to do some art and crafty project for both of his parents for Christmas. I’m torn on doing the stepping stones, as I’ve gone down that path before with another five year old, and not that it was a disaster, but it does take 48 hours for cement to cure correctly. I haven’t found the child yet with that patience level to see the finished product.

But he is all boy, so I may scrap that idea, and just go with building a rocket. My back yard is big enough and while it may not be Cape Canaveral or have the advantage of Ed Buckbee counting down the launch, its half and acre and clear of trees, except on the outer perimeters. This only comes to mind now, as little guy was missing him mom last night, dad was waiting to read to him, and well, to be honest, I am nothing if not soft and comfy to snuggle against when tears threaten. I had him calmed down, thumb in mouth, holding his blanket snuggled against me in the office chair, whispering words back and forth, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a left over firework from the summer on the bookcase.

He leaped off of my lap and therefore but the grace of the Flying Wallendas, was I able to stop him from careening up three shelves to get his said goal.

Truly, I thought I had childproofed my house, but a four year old with determination? I hope he keeps his ability to think outside the box as he does now at this age, when a bright and shiny object grabs his attention.

You think animals can get into odd places? I don’t want to know or have him recreate the acrobats necessary on various occasions when I spot one of my treasures in his little hands. I know I’ve pulled out the slide rule and graph paper, and run the necessary logarithms to calculate just how far out of reach something has to be, grinning in satisfaction with my endeavors. Oh, I’m prepared in my fat little mind. Generally in 2.5 minutes he blows my theories right out the door. Simon, in his cat like way, is usually adding his cat like laughter as well, telepathically sending the four year old messages, “Yes, you have walked the rice paper, and grabbed the marble from my paw” which does lead me to believe in conspiracy theories.

Simon himself is still sporting some suspicious wounds on his head. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what he was rubbing against or gotten into for about a week. Finally I believe I found the source of his woe. Two broken Egyptian perfume bottles and a lifeless carcass of a moth in the upstairs windowsill. I’m lucky that’s all the damage, and it was a clean kill.

I just wish I could get him to sweep up after himself when he’s done, or have the common courtesy to attempt to hide the evidence.

Simon has just stalked off in a huff, headed down the hallway to where the four year old is sleeping. My guess is that he starts whispering in his ear, about the secret hiding place in the hall closet where I keep all the breakables. I think I need a nap.

Original post date 2007-11-03