T-Minus . . . 30 Days . . . Give or Take

Well . . . I am shocked to look at the calendar and discover we are approximately a month away from Demon Baby's 5th birthday.

Five years.

The glorious news is this means kindergarten in the fall. Though he tells me--DAILY--that he will NEVER go on the yellow school bus and leave me. I am both delirious with anticipation of some silence and me time. And horribly sad. My last little bird is leaving the nest. Albeit from 8:00 to 2:00.

Five years.

Five years of hilarious escapades. Of collapsed ceilings and broken vacuums. Of syrup thrown off the second-story landing and dogs fed Raisin Bran. Of my diamond ring ending up in the dog's water dish, and more crayon on my walls than Crayola could ever imagine. [DAMN them!]

I have loved this child as fiercely as a mother can. I have fretted over his little idiosyncracies. I have shed a LOT of tears of frustration. I have prayed. A lot. I have yelled in my weak moments, and cheered him on in the great moments.

And I decided it was time to change the name of the blog. I'm not sure yet. I'm thinking Wonder Boy and Me . . . but we'll see. He's not a Demon BABY anymore. But he is pretty special.

And for any long-time readers, it's a reminder. Time flies. Kiss your loved ones. Hug your kids. Ignore the crayon and even the syrup on the walls. Because SOMEDAY your baby will be a boy. And then before you know it . . . a man.

[P.S. And the top picture? Me TRYING to take our family Christmas pictures. It was a freezing cold day. December 20th to be exact. And he is barefoot and running around on the frozen ground. That says it all. I suppose I'm lucky he wore pants.]

Games with Demon Baby

As you can imagine, Demon Baby doesn't play games like other kids. His games are weirder.

Take Trivial Pursuit. He takes out the game board. He hands me cards. I make up questions, like, "What is 3 + 5?" or "What sound does a cow make?" When he gets the question correct, he gets a wedge. When he fills the round wheel, he gets to make a wish. (His rules, not mine.)

Last night, he filled the wheel in record time (I was too tired to invent challenging questions).

"I get to make a wish now."

"All right. Go ahead."

MINUTES later, his eyes were still closed.

"That's a long wish."

"No, just a hard one."

"Well, what are you wishing for?"

"Guess."

"All right, to be taller?" (Common wish for him.)

"Nope."

"For a toy?"

"Nope."

"Do NOT trot out the baby brother wish again. Please."

"Nope."

"I give up."

"I made a wish for you."

"For me? What kind of wish?" (A little teary-eyed, then panicky that he might wish for TWIN baby brothers or something.)

"I wished for you to get a unicorn."

"A UNICORN?!"

"Yeah."

"Um . . . wow. I am touched. Um . . . do you think I LIKE unicorns?"

"Everyone likes unicorns. They're cool. I think you should have one. It would make you happy. A pet unicorn."

"All right. But you know? Having you as my Demon Baby makes me happier than having a unicorn, so if the wish doesn't come true, you know, that's okay."

"Cool. Next wish? A pet giraffe for you. Trust me. It will make you really happy."

"Great. But maybe just wish for a laundress." (I'm just saying . . . )

Santa . . .

So Demon Baby had a lovely Christmas. He got an electronic guitar, Legos, a Nintendo DS, Ninja pants (black fleece pants from Old Navy, God bless them they make a pant he will wear at times), a large coloring book, and assorted other presents. Oh, and a lifelike baby bear. It makes noise. You feed it a bottle. It moves.

"WHAT?!" he asked when he opened it.

"It's a baby bear that moves," said I, thinking he wasn't quite sure.

"Santa is out of his mind. He brought me a GIRL present!!!!"

"It's not a girl present!" I shrieked in outrage.

"Is too! What am I supposed to do with THIS? GIRLS feed bears with a baby bottle."

"That is incredibly sexist. BOYS CAN TOO." Hoping to avoid an international incident, I hurriedly said, "Open another present."

Well, here it is about 10 days post Christmas. And guess what he carries around 24/7? His baby bear. And when he leaves the house to do anything, guess who is handed the bottle and told to keep up feedings, kiss it, tuck it in, wrap in in blankets and otherwise mother a fake baby bear?

Yeah. More work load for me.

But it seems Santa knew what she was doing.