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.

The Five-Second Rule

I wander the earth, since Demon Baby's arrival, in such a state of hypervigilance, constantly trying to prevent--or clean up--mayhem. I am not kidding in that I have recently had to start high blood pressure medication. In the last year, my blood pressure has shot up 20 points.

There is a very rude woman who lives a block away from me. She is someone who never fails to make pronouncements of judgment about other people. I avoid her like the swine flu, but about three months ago, she commented in front of a room full of people that I "clearly" do not supervise my child enough since he gets in so much trouble, with a pronouncement of "What kind of mother are you?" Needless to say, this is why I don't go to cocktail parties.

I work from home as a novelist (and no, I don't make up ANY of the stuff on this blog--he generally has a blog-worthy event nearly every day), which means I am with Demon Baby 24/7. He is never too far from me, but . . . you know . . . mothers have to shower. I use the bathoom on rare occasions. I write in my office. I sometimes have to go outside to check the mail. You get the idea.

If you've ever worked in a restaurant, you know the five-second rule. If it falls on the floor in the kitchen for less than five seconds, you can still plate it up. Now . . . I don't ASCRIBE to the five-second rule, but I have worked as a waitress and bartender. I know it exists. Demon Baby has a five-second rule.

If I am away from him for five seconds, mayhem will result. Books will come cascading off of shelves, the printer in my office will have a pen shoved in it, toilet paper will go floating from the second-story landing. In fact, out of my sight for five seconds, I swear to you, the most often-heard expression is: "Oops!" Followed by: "Don't worry! It didn't break."

I am going away this weekend. It will, I think, be only the third night I have ever been separated from Demon Baby is four years. I know that sounds hopelessly pathetic, as in, "This poor mother NEVER gets a break and clearly doesn't take vacation," but it is what it is. One the rare occasions when I am not around him, it takes my brain and body at least 24 hours to relax. By then, it's time to come home. In this case, I am going to see my dad, who needs a pacemaker and is blind . . . so it's not like I will be dancing and doing the cha-cha on some beach somewhere.

So we shall see what panicked phone calls I get from my adult daughter, who shall be in charge of Demon Baby . . . what mayhem results . . . what I will face when I open the door after the weekend.

That's A LOT of time for him to be without me! (I need to remind Oldest Daughter of the five-second rule.)

Top Ten Things You Don't Want to Hear From the Mouth of Demon Baby

1. Whatever you do, DON'T look in the family room.

2. If you add spit to someone's drink, does that make it taste better? [Mom's aside: Usually after I've just finished my drink.]

3. Ooops.

4. My Magical Friend made a mess.

5. You might want to go get a towel.

6. It's all right that I fed the dog pepperoni pizza, right?

7. So are you in a bad mood? I have to tell you something.

8. I hid your car keys and now I can't find them.

9. I painted the mirrors with toothpaste. It looks awesome. Come see. [Mom's aside: Did Picasso start this way?]

10. Our fish like cheese, right?

Dear Ziploc

I thought I would write to you and tell you about an ingenius and devious new use for your products that I am fairly certain you had not thought of when you created your Ziploc resealable bags.

Yesterday, my son, a.k.a. Demon Baby, took two boxes of Ziploc bags--which you tout for keeping food so fresh--and hid them, unbeknownst to me. Later, he filled them all with water and made water balloons with them when I thought he was merely going potty.

First, may I tell you that hurled, the Ziplocs indeed kept in the water. Bravo for your engineers! However, when Demon Baby decided to start hiding the water balloons under couch cushions and carpets for people to step and sit on . . . the seals . . . not so much. Perhaps you can work on that.

May I also tell you that gallon Ziplocs seem to hold even MORE than a gallon of water. In fact, they seem to hold a small pond of water. Particularly when they are spilled on my family room floor. Just TWO gallon bags in there were able to flood the entire den. Fascinating! And again, bravo for you!

I have been a loyal Ziploc user for many years now. However, now I will be storing your products under lock and key. Warning labels might be appropriate, too. Caution: Not intended as water balloon projectiles.

Sincerely,

Demon Baby's Mother

Apocalypse Now

That sound you just heard?

The gallop of four horsemen?

The apocalypse is upon us.

I tried to be in denial about it.

I thought if I don't acknowledge what Demon Baby is saying, he will eventually give up this notion.

After a week, he still kept on with it.

This will go away. Just don't acknowledge it. Denial.

Now . . . it's incessant. Firm. Belligerent. Loud. Insistent. Vocal beyond belief. It DEMANDS to be acknowledged.

Demon Baby has an imaginary friend.

Let's call him Demon Baby 2.0.

Demon Baby's imaginary friend has, in Demon's own words, "Magical powers, and he's really, really naughty. And SUPER HUMONGOUSLY POWERFUL!"

Demon Baby 2.0 has, when no one was looking, shredded an entire roll of toilet paper. Opened an entire box of Band-Aids and stuck every last one to the carpet. Drawn on Oldest Brother's wall. Discovered Oldest Sister's secret stash of gum, chewed pieces, and left them stuck to various pieces of furniture.

I could go on.

But now it's TWO of them.

And one of me.

There's no hope. Run for the hills.

How to Wreak Havoc: By Demon Baby

1. Get naked.

2. Wait till mom is in the shower.

3. Get the OJ out of the fridge.

4. Get a chair.

5. Push chair to sink.

6. Dump OJ down the sink.

7. Start faucet.

8. Get the entire bottle of dishwashing soap.

9. Make bubbles.

10. Dump bubbles on the floor.

11. Get caught in the act and act cute.

12. Mission accomplished.

I Can't Make This Stuff Up

I took a shower. I emerged. Five minutes, tops--that's all I can really allow myself during any of his waking moments.

Demon Baby was quiet.

TOO quiet.

What was he up to, you ask?

He managed to open the BRAND-NEW roller shade for Baby Girl's bedroom, pull off ALL the shade, so he had a thin "bat" of the center roller. (Throwing the shade in a heap over the second-story landing--WHY didn't I buy a ranch?)

Then he played baseball with his new bat.

Throwing up his Sippie Cup and trying to hit it out of the park. Or in this case, family room.

Note . . . he has an entire toybox--MULTIPLE toyboxes, actually, with balls and cars and trains and fake cooking stuff for his pretend stove, and coloring books, and crayons. And Superhero dolls.

A roller shade.

I just cannot make this stuff up.

Thanking God

My mantra with Demon Baby is "Remember what's important."

Crayon on the walls. It's just a wall. He's little once. Remember what's important.

Deciding he's Greek and throwing plates to the bottom of the steps while screaming "Oopah!" (for the record, the kid is not Greek, he's Mexican-American). Remember what's important.

Five minutes after the housekeeper leaves on Tuesdays (while saying Amen she hasn't quit yet), ripping a newspaper into confetti and showering it all over the living room. Remember what's important.

Yesterday. Spits. Spits on his older sister's appointment book. For no reason but to be fresh. He gets put into time-out. (I drag his fresh little butt upstairs and he gets put in his crib, shades drawn in the room, door shut, and has to stay there and "think about" his naughtiness.)

He climbs out and opens the door. I put him back.

I come downstairs. I am sitting here. Working. He is crying. I can hear him getting MAD. He is screaming.

Then, me, my oldest son, and my mom look out the window of my office, and we see . . . OBJECTS . . . FALLING . . . FROM SECOND-STORY WINDOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I race upstairs, because at that moment, I literally didn't know if HE had decided to fling himself out the second-story window. I never leave the windows open precisely for that reason. But I had CRACKED the windows in the nice weather. Luckily, we have window locks, so even if I open the windows, I set them for a four-inch height only. He had then used his fingertips to open the screen, and was sliding everything and anything that could fit through a four-inch height out the windows. Stuffed animals. Boxes of art supplies. Games.

But not himself.

Remember what's important.

I literally thought I was going up to find my baby had thrown himself out a window, that I had somehow forgotten the window locks. I live in a state of hyper-vigilence with him anyway, but a tired mom can make a mistake, and I know that. But no. Window locks on. I had a mess to clean up in the yard. But he was there. Upstairs. Delighting in throwing things down "so the dogs could play with them" (our dogs are outside on nice days--we have a fenced yard).

I hugged him. Then all the windows got totally shut. Then he got another time-out.

But he was safe.

Remember what's important.

And for the record, yes, I think I had a minor heart attack yesterday.

And I have a sneaking suspicion with Demon Baby it won't be my last.

Remember what's important.

Demon Confinement

I have now learned what the results are from keeping Demon Baby confined in the car for seven hours. It's akin to, once released, unleashing the power of splitting atoms.

Unable to do more than scream his displeasure for seven hours, restrained in a car seat, we arrived home.

In TEN minutes, and I am NOT exaggerating for effect . . . in the time it took me to haul in three suitcases and assorted crap, he:

• Took one bath towel, put it in the upstairs sink, turned on the faucet and flooded the upstairs bathroom
• Took off his pants and peed in the family room (THAT'S letting mom know you're mad!)
• And . . . in a stroke of sheer demonic brilliance, even for him . . . took a full tube of toothpaste and squeezed it out on my jewelry

Ahh, the joys of travel.

Questions

These are questions I ask as the mother of a Demon Baby:

1. Why is our dog dumb enough to eat anything Demon Baby feeds him? I can understand chocolates, M&Ms, and cheese. But Zip-loc bags? Socks?
2. What is Demon Baby's fascination with water? Not just the bathtub, but the toilet, mud puddles, and the dog's water dish?
3. Why does he innately seem to know when someone is going to ring the doorbell and choose THAT time to strip naked so he's ready to answer the door that way, making me seem, for the thousandth time, like a really bad mother?
4. Why do things that most humans seem to understand are food stuff . . . appeal to HIM as hair gel? That includes butter and pancake batter.
5. Why is everything fair game as a hand grenade? Whether that be apples, stray golf balls he's found in the yard, or . . . my best Christmas ornaments?

These are the questions a Demon Baby's mother asks. Each day. Sometimes several times a day.

Sprinkled Nudity

This will be a short one. Because really, what more is there to say?

It's Sunday.

I took a shower. I got dressed. I combed my hair. I got Child #2 and Child #3 up and they got ready for church. I dressed Demon Baby for church (jeans and a sweater) and settled him in with a video and some juice downstairs in the TV room, while I brushed my teeth and put on lipstick and a fast coat of mascara upstairs.

Note to self: Any time there is more than 3 feet between me and Demon Baby, trouble results.

The three of us (me, Child #2, and Child #3) went downstairs. I walked into the family room.

And there was the now-NAKED Demon Baby. And while I was in the bathroom, he took out a vanilla ice cream cup from the freezer, and found a full bottle of multicolored sprinkles.

And suffice it to say, he, his feet, his stomach, his hair, his face, and most importantly his penis . . . were all . . . covered in vanilla ice cream and sprinkles.

It is Sunday.

You can guess that ALL my prayers were for patience.

Because I am convinced even the mother of GOD would have gray hair from this Demon Baby.

Naked Rock Climbing

Originality.

This Demon Baby . . . when I think he can deliver "shock and awe" no more . . . defies all expectations.

The scene: My downstairs bathroom. It is a half-bath. Hardwood floors. Marble sink. Toilet. Toilet paper holder. Framed art on the walls (photos of Buddha statues taken by Demon's father).

Demon, now potty trained, has been in the bathroom a little bit TOO long. As in . . . mischief must be afoot.

I try the door.

It is locked.

"Let me in, Demon Baby."

"NO!"

"Are you OK?"

"Go away."

I pick the lock. (A skill I have become quite good at with him being a master of locking himself in rooms the better to wreak havoc.)

And there is Demon Baby. Stark naked.

He has REMOVED the toilet paper and the little spring insert that fits inside the roll. Thus leaving two roll holders projecting out horizontally from the wall.

And Demon Baby has used his potty chair to CLIMB like a ROCK CLIMBER on top of the roll holders . . butt out (naked, so picture this), face pressed against the wall, one foot on each holder, hands reaching for a his next rock-climbing hold--MY ARTWORK!

Yes, my son was "rock-climbing" up the bathroom wall. Naked.

I am telling you, I may be a novelist, but I could not make this sh*t up.