Trees & Apples

There's a thing about apples falling in close proximity to trees.

My oldest son is a TALKER. Nine times out of ten (or 99 times out of 100), he's the last one finished with his dinner because he has spent the entire time flapping his jaws. I'm sensitive to this because that was me. Last one done. Always losing a point in citizenship because I couldn't keep my trap shut. So I probably have more patience with my child as a result.

And I refuse to stifle this in him. Curtail it, yes. Make sure he's being respectful of authority and other people's time, yes. Teach him to listen more, yes. But restrict his speech, never. (For the record, my family endured my incessant chatter as well.) See, talkers turn into lawyers and broadcast journalists and pastors and CEOs (and, also, apparently, stay at home moms). I don't want to encourage my child to be shy. You might say that I am aware of what silencing my child might do to him.

But I have no patience when it comes to his ridiculous knack for losing things. Apple=Garrett. Tree=Troy. I married the absentminded pastor. I wouldn't trade that man for anything but stories about him are becoming legendary. (At least, in my mind they are.)

His son is no exception.

He misplaces shoes, shirts, toys, books, you name it. Then we spend precious minutes (hours, weeks) of our lives searching for these things.

Currently we're looking for a jacket. A jacket. How do you misplace an entire jacket? It's not like we're looking for one sock (although currently we ARE looking for about six of Garrett's socks as well). I worked yesterday so Troy picked him up from school and while Garrett insists that he had his jacket on, Troy doesn't remember. It's fine. He remembers minute details of the Bible as well as several professional football players' college stats so he can't really be expected to remember what his child was wearing when he exited the school 22 hours ago. But heaven help us all if Garrett ever goes missing and the police are relying solely on my husband's recollection of what he was wearing. "Clothes, officer."

"Are you certain that he was wearing clothes?"

"Not entirely," my husband might say.

(On a side note, my husband has been a total rock star with helping Garrett get his weekly homework done on Mondays while I'm working.Yesterday, I came home to all the homework done and the house picked up. That man would make a terrific stay at home dad. Unfortunately, we wouldn't be able to live on the 12,000 dollars that I'd bring home in a year if I worked as a full time substitute. So he's keeping his job.)

The jacket is missing. I've searched the house. It could be at school although this is doubtful because they hang their jackets over their backpacks. Then again, my husband picks up his wallet but leaves the thing that was sitting on top of his wallet when he walks out the door so maybe Garrett put his backpack on and left his coat hanging there. It could be somewhere in the neighborhood because it's warmed up into the 50's so you can bet that all the kids are outside playing in shorts and hoodies. They get hot because of FIFTY DEGREES AFTER THREE MONTHS OF SOLID TWENTIES and discard the jacket in someone else's yard. It could be anywhere.

And the whole point of this rambling post is that I have almost infinite patience with my son when it comes to excessive chatter but nearly no patience at all when it comes to losing things.

I'm going to need my inlaws to give me lessons and an explanation as to how my husband survived his childhood. I will then implement these tools in raising my own son. The end.