Last night we came up to bed to find a hundred baby spiders crawling on our bedroom ceiling. Yeah, I know, creepiest thing ever. Sean and I went to work taking turns holding the flashlight while the other squished baby spiders into wads of toilet paper. I didn't sleep much last night even though I'm confident we killed them all and I woke up with a startle in the middle of the night feeling like I was covered in giant spiders.
But even though I didn't sleep much last night and most of the nights this week, I still can't fall asleep until after midnight. I'm guessing it might be my thyroid levels since I am pretty hyperthyroid now. Not that I'm complaining; I'd much rather have too much energy than too little.
Sean biked home in the rain yesterday to a chicken dinner with broccoli and noodles and said, "It smells like New Jersey in here." so matter-of-factly and I can't stop chuckling when I think of it. All of these years later and he still makes me laugh, hard.
Dylan's the same. He's been fascinated with how things work lately: what's in our eyes?...what's in our iris and pupil?...what's in the rods and cones?...what is a screw made of?...what's in the metal?...where does the poop go?...into the tiny pipe in the wall?...where do you go when you die?...do you go up to the sky like a bird?...mom, do you have a penis?...
I love his inquisitive questions. He wants to know about everything. How thunder works, what slugs eat, if his half-dead squirmy wormy is a boy or a girl.
I remember being warned about the "why?" stage. That it doesn't get more annoying than hearing "whhhhhhy?" all day long, but I'm really enjoying our talks.
No, Mama doesn't have a penis. Your poop goes to the sewage treatment plant down the street. I don't know what happens when people die, and no you cannot fly like a bird so don't try it or else you'll end up in the hospital with stitches. Atoms are in metal and everything around us, we are all made up of matter and particles and you will learn more about that in sophomore year chemistry. Now eat your lunch.
Dylan is Sean's son for sure. I can almost see Sean's thought process churning through Dylan's mind before these questions arise.
But as smart as he is, he still cannot tie his shoes or wipe his own butt or drink out of a water bottle without spilling it down his shirt now and then. He's growing up so quickly--telling me, "But be careful, Mama! Don't burn yourself!" as I maneuver the hot glue gun--but he's still so little. And I don't care if he's six feet tall, he will always be my little baby.