. . . thinks your kid is a Demon Baby.
Sometimes I wonder if I am crazy. Maybe Demon Baby isn't so Demonish after all. Maybe I am just so stressed that I am not appreciating the fact that yesterday he cut a hole (with his fingers) in the back porch screen and threw all my glass candleholders out onto the concrete patio so they would smash while I was on the phone with my agent.
Maybe it's all about perspective. But . . . .
Yesterday, my iPod was on, and Rage Against the Machine came on. And he started doing it. That crazy, head-banging, karate-chopping punk dance of his. And my mom, who is visiting, watched him in amazement.
"It's not me, is it, Mom? He really IS a little . . . wild, right?"
"Well, he's not as laid-back as the other three. But he is a charmer."
"Yeah but . . . " And so we watched him punching the air.
"You know," she pondered. "He's going to be 14 and have an eyebrow piercing and a nose ring and blue hair, and a tattoo sleeve on each arm."
I nodded. "I know."
To which Oldest Daughter got incensed. "Oh, so you'll let HIM get a tattoo at 14, but you won't let ME?"
To which I just sighed.
And then I looked at him . . . and said to my mom, "He just is this way. And I'll still love him with tattoos and blue hair. Just so long as he stays sweet inside."
But . . . even GRANDMA sees it. I am not insane.
Exhausted, yes. Insane, no.