Pamela Tracy here and I'm the luckily woman in the world
See, living in my house, besides a husband and cat, is an eight-year-old boy.
And boy is he a boy.
I have the Dennis the Menace boy.
He and his friends love to take the shovels and dig deep holes in the backyard. They find pieces of wood and make ramps in the street to ride their bikes and scooters over. They build lego worlds all over the floors of my house so that I can, barefoot, step on small pieces. He's the food all over the face kid.
He wants to be a hot dog for Halloween.
A hot dog?
His rowdy side made its way as Caleb in my 2012 Once Upon a Christmas from Love Inspired. His sweet side mades its way into my 2010 Daddy for Keeps from Love Inspired.
As for me, I can fill in backyard holes (actually my hubby does that). I can put band aides on his cuts he gets when the ramp malfunctions (really, 8 year old malfunctions). I build legos with him, and offer a wash cloth after he eats.
Yesterday we were at a carnival. I probably walked twenty miles in a corn maze (I found the way out!). I rode pushcarts, played putt putt golf, took a hayride, and rode the haunted train.
The black moment (last time I wrote about this I used the Heroe's Journey) was the rollercoaster.
I hate roller coasters. I'm afraid of heights and don't much trust a gadget that goes up and down and fast.
Still, I'm in line with the 8 year old, going to sit in the car and go up and down and around.
The stupid thing breaks right before our turn. Eighty percent of the line walks away when they hear "It'll take at least 20 minutes to fix." Here comes a mechanic (Later, he was selling kettle corn)
Now, I have to get on a roller coaster right after it's broken down!
And I did it.
Because in 5 years, my son will want a friend to ride with him instead of me. In 10 years, he'll go to carnivals by himself. In fifteen years, he'll go with his wife. And, in 20 years, he'll go with his own 8 year old.
And so I ride the rollercoaster of life.