Dear Silas-

Dear Silas- 

    I just saved you again from your probable death. I will admit ONLY under oath how many times you've gone MIA out the front door. This time you crossed the street and there was a car stopped, gawking at the loose toddler and wondering where your obviously terrible mother was. You know where I was? In the kitchen prepping dinner and beaming with pride that I wasn't serving my family cereal for supper again. No way,  not this supermom. Not two days in a row.

   And do you know where you were? Two seconds before your escape you were drinking your "crack" chocolate milk and watching the boys play Wii. I never even heard the front door open or the screen door slam shut behind you. Still have no idea how you got the front door unlocked. My best guess is Canaan.
    The good news is, this time I found you before our neighbor Tommy did. I'm pretty sure if he rescues you again he will call CPS. I'm sure he feels justified in his assessment of my parenting skills. But Tommy just doesn't understand. He doesn't know that you are ridiculously fast and quiet. He doesn't understand how your big brothers walk out a door and don't lock it behind them. He is not aware of the special diet we have put our whole family on, one that we started only in an attempt to slow you down...to take your intensity down a few notches so to speak.
    Out of all of my boys, I have never had one like you. You have scaled or destroyed every baby gate we have constructed. You climb out of your crib an average of 14 times a night and mermaiding your legs together doesn't even make you pause. You can do a full chin up. You have some
 sort of radar that locates computers and "I-things" at lightening speed. I have said before that holding you is like wrestling a raccoon and lament weekly to your father "I am so tired of getting beat up by him!" I'm not even sure how many friends I have apologized to over and over after their children were assaulted by you. Intensity oozes from your every pore. Even your brothers like to mimic your "Silas shake" where you stretch your arms out and do this seizure-like thing when you are particularly excited. The pediatrician assured me its normal for your age. Oh Silas, you are gonna be the end of me.
   I wish I could wrap this letter up all 1950's sitcom style and tell you how I hope as you grow you channel your passion into following our Lord- or how I pray that love for people will overflow in you with such power that makes your "Silas shake" look like a tired yawn. But I can't. I'm not there yet. I'm still slightly shaking myself after saving your life AGAIN and thinking through all the horrible scenarios and what ifs.
   I do have one request for you. Something you need to remember always and take very seriously. I want you to promise that when you are "all growed up" and inevitably some kind of famous professional athlete- I want you to promise that you will buy your momma a house. And I'm not talking about the momma that birthed you (for whom I am forever grateful). I'm talking about me, the momma that SURVIVED you.

I love you fiercely my Squeaky Weeky.
Love,
Your tired mother