Destruction

I like to call Ben my little tornado. Destruction. Anyone who has spent five minutes around him knows what I mean. He exudes fearless energy -- something that both admire and worry about. Take right now, for instance. I'm trying to keep him from jumping head first off the arm of the couch while I blog. 

He's the kid at preschool who picks wrestling fights with 5-year-olds. Never mind they are three times his size. 

This week, we had a few more accidents, and they came just a couple of months after stitches. While playing in the kitchen with a balloon, he busted his chin. Our pediatrician skipped the stitches this time, but put some Dermabond on it. Ben was pretty upset. About his busted balloon. 

Any yesterday, while the boys were playing in the front yard, he slammed his hand against the concrete and somehow managed to pull his nail back. Ewww. 

John and I know the broken bones are coming -- we just hope to avoid concussions and anything more serious. For all the hits, there are countless near misses when I say a quick thanks to God for getting me through another almost-accident. 

Jack never put us through this, but that doesn't mean I haven't done the same share of worrying over him. At 2, Jack was on a daily regimen of Singulair, inhaled steroids and cold medicine. He is my wheezer, and an expert breathing machine operator. We have removed his adenoids and tonsils, and added a set of ear tubes. 

Ben, meanwhile, has had one ear infection and one bout with strep in nearly three years. That's it. So the next time I catch him taking a nose dive off the couch, I will remind myself to be thankful for all the things I don't worry about with him -- and say another prayer that we make through the day without a trip to Urgent Care.