It all started in January when he discovered how to get out of his crib/playpen. I knew then that I was doomed. This is a kid who has the face of an angel, and the craftiness of the devil himself.
Since that fateful day, he has thrown a total of 19 coasters into the fishtank. He has ripped pages out of 3 of my books, and destroyed 14 of his books. He took the cap off of the shampoo bottle and poured it onto the bathroom floor. He has totally unravelled 3 full rolls of toilet paper. He has pulled uncountable amounts of Kleenex from the box, then proceeded to shred them into 18 trillion pieces. He has gotten into my icing gels, and turned his hair into punk streaks of violet and turquoise. He has taken utensils out of the kitchen drawer and hidden them in various parts of the house. He has systematically taken every piece of clean and folded laundry out of the basket and dumped them all over the floor. He has broken 3 pairs of glasses (2 of mine, and one of Oma's). He has pulled the cable from the tv. He has ripped out stereo speaker wires. He has bashed 3000 dents in my pine dining table. In the fishbowl upstairs he has placed a Webkinz cat, his stuffed dinosaur, a notepad, a light-up UFO toy, and the baby monitor. He has locked me out of the house while I check to see if we have any mail.
And today, in the space of 1.2 nanoseconds, he ran ahead of me into the kitchen, opened a drawer, grabbed the scissors and ran off with them. I went the other way to intercept him, and while trying to pry the weapon from his tiny but amazingly strong fingers, and avoid him taking out an eye, he opened and closed them 6 times in succession on my thumb.
He is okay. I am not. Ou-effing-ch!
Now, I know that you are reading this, thinking, what a bad mother! Isn't she watching him? But that's the point. He sits and waits. And waits. And waits. For that one minute where you are momentarily distracted by the phone or doorbell or concern from another child or your spouse, and then he leaps (oh-so-silently) into havoc-wreaking action.
My aunts will remember the horror stories that my mom and dad told about my brother Paul, and his dastardly deeds as a small (and not so small) child. So I ask you, where is the karma? How did I end up with the kid that was, by all rights, supposed to be his?
He runs into my arms. He pats my face gently with his small hands. He snuggles around until his cheek is nestled against the skin of my neck. He presses his forehead into mine and looks into my eyes. He calls me "Honey". And I think, he may be trying to drive me over the fine edge to insanity, but he's sweet. And warm. And affectionate. And he's mine. For better or for a whole lot worse.