Romeo

So Demon Baby continues to overwhelm me with all sorts of romantic talk. I was sitting on the couch when he climbed up next to me. He said he wanted to tell me something. He leaned in close, moved my hair and whispered, "How are you my sexy lovely?"

But that's not all.

Yesterday, I was making him his favorite dish of noodles. He walked into the kitchen, hands on hips, and said, "I know the secret now."

"What secret?" I asked, stirring the pot.

"The secret of getting girls."

"Sure you do."

"No, really. It's all in the dancing."

Now, as an aside, Demon Baby has inherited from his father, who is Hispanic, true "Latin rhythm." The kid is pretty amazing on the dance floor.

"Dancing is a good way to get girls."

"But I know the trick."

"What trick?"

"You lie her backwards over your leg and you hold onto her head up in her hair and then lean down and kiss her on the mouth. The girls love it."

"You mean like dipping a woman in a tango?"

"Yeah. Dipping. It's all in the dip, Mom. That's how you get girls."

"Glad you're honing your technique at age four."

With that, he walked off and for the millionth time, I thought, Man, am I in trouble with this kid.

And Yet . . .

After the last post, it might seem as if Demon Baby has been tamed into a sweet little ball of sugary wonderfulness.

But then . . . .

The look says it all.

First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage

Demon Baby came into my office yesterday, dressed (surprising) and soaking wet (alas, not so surprising).

"Why are you wet?" I asked.

"It's nothing."

My first instinct was to look up, since I have extensive ceiling damage from other "nothing" little incidents with water in the upstairs bathroom.

"Please tell me you didn't flood anything."

"I didn't."

"So why are you wet?"

"I combed my hair with water so I could look extra handsome."

"Well, you were very successful. You look EXTREMELY handsome!"

"Good. Because we're getting married."

"Who?"

"Me and you."

"Okay. I think I would like being married to you."

"You know how to get married?"

"Yeah. I've tried it before."

"First you find a beautiful girl. Then you make out. Then you marry her."

"Make out? Who told you about making out?"

He looked at me quizzically. "You don't know about making out? Everyone knows about making out. I'm four, and I know about making out. It means you kiss someone for a really long time. Then you get married."

"All righty, then."

"I love you SO SUPER MUCH."

"I love you too."

"Can you make me a peanut butter sandwich?"

"Sure."

Within a few minutes, he had forgotten all about the wedding. But having four kids, including one adult and one teenager . . . with an 11-year-old in middle school, I know the days of thinking I'm wonderful are numbered. So for today . . . I am engaged to a wonderful Demon Baby who is very handsome and loves me SO SUPER MUCH.

Grandma

Demon Baby has only one Grandma. Technically, he does have two, but his paternal grandmother so loathes me she cut all four children out of her life nearly 11 years ago. As this blog attests . . . I don't know how you could NOT want a Demon Baby to love, but so it is. He doesn't really know who she is or that she exists, and it is very much her loss since he is so special. Hence, in Demon Baby's world there is ONE Grandma.

So two days ago, he was my helper in the kitchen and the following conversation ensued.

"What are we making?"

"Vietnamese rice paper rolls with peanut sauce."

"WHAT are you DOING with my peanut butter [aside, his favorite food]?!?!?!?!" [second aside, there was a note of hysteria to his voice.]

"Turning it into a sauce."

"That's gross."

"You'll see. Now . . . we're going to take this leftover chicken and cut it into pieces to stuff inside the rolls."

"You know who makes chicken sandwiches?"

"No, but I'm sure you will tell me."

"Pop." [my father]

"Really?"

"Yeah, but I gotta tell you, Pop is not a good cooker. You know what he does? He puts a ton of salt on his chicken sandwiches. And he makes the counter a mess." [true.]

"Hmm. Well, I am sure it's because he can't see the counter well." [my father is blind, and when he comes to stay for a few weeks, I think it's hard because my kitchen countertops are very dark.]

"You know who is a REALLY good cooker?"

"Who?" [I was hoping for ME.]

"His mother!" [i.e., his WIFE, my mother, Demon Baby's lone Grandma.]

"His MOTHER?"

"Yeah. The lady with the white hair. Now, let me tell you, SHE can cook a chicken."

"I know. She used to cook for me when I was your age."

"You were never my age."

"I was."

"And Pop's mother cooked for you?"

I nodded.

"Did she make you noodles with butter?"

"Yes."

"And those little pizzas?"

"Yes."

"Did she give you ice cream?"

"Yeah."

"Pop's mother is the best."

"She is."

"Is she coming to live with us for Christmas again?"

"Yes. For a few weeks. Her and Pop."

"Will she cook?"

"Sure."

"All right. Just tell her to keep Pop out of the kitchen. He's too messy with the salt."

And of course, then the IRONY struck me. Here was a DEMON BABY telling me a 75-year-old grandfather of eleven was too MESSY. Approximately 5 minutes after this conversation took place, Demon Baby accidentally dumped a box of Life cereal on the floor in the family room. But at least he doesn't get salt on the kitchen counters.

Rock Star with a Demon Baby Twist

So Demon Baby wants to be a rock star. He plays on my guitar, and he plays with his brother's Guitar Hero guitar. Last night, he gave me a twenty minute performance. This entails him playing the Guitar Hero guitar, while he does an assortment of "na-na-naaaaaaaaa-na-na" guitar sounds. He moves his fingers expertly on the frets. He falls to his knees and shuts his eyes at intense moments. He does the various rock star tricks (bottom photo).

Yesterday I was exhausted. Ostensibly, I went into my room, to BED, to try to get rid of a raging headache. After twenty minutes of "na-na-naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-na" at the top of his lungs, and the acrobatics on my bed, I was even more tired (though bemused and in a better mood).

"Please, Demon Baby, just let Mama rest for a bit."

"I just have to do one more thing."

"What?"

"SMASH the guitar on the stage!!"

At which, he leapt up and began pounding it, a la Pete Townsend, into the bed.

I realized he was more riveting to watch than many bands I've seen. He was pure rock fury. He was into it. He was lost in his rock 'n' roll world.

Which is both . . . amazing . . . and a little frightening.

Music lessons are in his future. I need to channel this energy.