Sunday, June 06, 2010
When he turned three I expected that Terrible Two was over. Finally, my Frankenstein would grow some restraint, tact, foresight, wisdom, even. No. As it turns out, six months into the third year of raising my youngest, this is not the case. This past Saturday morning, as I languished in the pre-dawn euphoria of a quiet room sans bed visitors under three feet tall, (the height requirement sign is clearly posted next to the bed), something very awful happened.
First, I was awakened by a noise coming from the den. It sounded like a moving chair. Upon further investigation, I discovered what looked like a little boy in the dimly lit kitchen. Gasping, I suddenly remembered a recent lapse in Christie House Child-Proof Security.
Last week, when the plastic baby-proof lock on the refrigerator door broke, I removed it completely. After all, I thought, my youngest is three years old now, practically a man, soon to be off to college. I stood by the broken lock daydreaming that perhaps the time had come to stop baby-proofing my life. The wishful thought was accompanied by an image of me in a red Audi R8 Spyder convertible hugging the winding roads of Europe. But in reality, my son was covered from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes in chocolate syrup, and all I could think to do was to run since I really drive a minivan that’s equipped with three car seats and offers non-stop Thomas the Tank Engine on DVD.
As I considered fleeing the scene, little Frankenstein blamed the whole mess on one of his sleeping siblings.
“Sissy did it, not me. Call the policeman, Mama,” he said, twisting a chocolate-stained pointer finger in his left nostril.
In fact, this little boy was ready and cheerfully willing to give a statement to the police implicating his sister, as he clutched the bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup against his pajama shirt and licked his dripping sleeve. The chocolate tracks all over the house fit his footprint. A chocolate finger painting portrait of the entire "happy" family was splattered across the length of the refrigerator door. It didn’t take me as long as an episode of 48 Hours to find the culprit.
Then I did what any super mom without a hot sports car and a one-way ticket to Europe would do at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I started to cry and, babbling unintelligibly, went back to bed. My husband cleaned up.
Dear Internet Traveler,
Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.