In for it

Today I arrived at Owen's school to pick him up at 5. As is usual in the late afternoon, his class was playing outside on the playground. It took me awhile to see him at first - I was distracted by the knot of well behaved toddlers climbing up and sliding down the plastic dinosaur slide with one of the teachers' assistance. I spotted Owen finally, in the far corner of the playground playing by himself in what appeared to be a giant pile of mulch, supervised by one of the other teachers. I called "Owen!" and his little red head whipped around, and he came charging towards me grinning like a maniac. Friends, when I tell you this child was filthy, I mean I've rarely seen the likes. He had dirt clinging to his nostrils and in his hair, and his clothes were soaking wet to boot. I looked again at the other, notably non-disheveled kids, still playing near the slide. I looked back at my child, who I then noticed was not wearing the clothes I sent him to school in that morning. The teacher, in the meantime, had gathered up Owen's things for me and sheepishly handed me a plastic grocery bag along with his diaper bag. The contents of the plastic bag were an equally filthy set of clothing, the same he had worn in the door that morning. She said somewhat apologetically "well, when he wants to do something, we just can't stop him!"

I smiled, did the figurative equivalent of picking up my toddler between my thumb and forefinger, and cheerfully waved goodbye. I couldn't help thinking, however, "you just can't stop him? He's sixteen months old". I am in trouble. 

As we were leaving, the teacher continued to give us the report about his day. The last thing she said to me was "he ate a lot today! maybe he won't want his dinner. He had all his lunch, three big snacks and three glasses of milk". 

When we got home, he ate more than half a package of buitoni 4 cheese ravioli (that serves 3. adults.), a package of chocolate bunny grahams, a whole peach, and over a cup of milk.