He's sharp.
What ONE phrase, when uttered by a two-year-old, will make ALL adults (even total strangers, waitresses, store clerks, ANYONE) within earshot FREAK OUT, run to help them, PAY ATTENTION to them, act like idiots?
Think about it and see if YOU are as clever as Demon Baby.
Wait for it.
Yes, the phrase is, "I think I'm gonna throw up." As well as all its variations--barf, hurl, puke, and vomit.
Demon Baby threw up a month or so ago for the first time ever. And of course, this entailed every person in the household fussing over him as if the King of Siam had taken ill. He found this amusing. And then he observed that when his sisters and brother ALSO got the stomach flu, they ALSO got a lot of attention.
So . . . he started running up to people--his teacher, waiters, me, family members, the lady on the checkout line--and saying, while clutching his stomach, "I think I'm gonna puke!" Then waiting for . . . and laughing at the reaction.
This is now his favorite pasttime.
At this point, I don't even look up. Which then means said store clerks and waitresses think I am an evil mother.
But I'm not. I am merely the mother of a clever Demon Baby.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, February 18, 2008
When Demons Run the World
The kid is amazing. Dimple like a canyon. Smiling eyes. Hoarse, raspy voice that is somehow funny coming out of this tiny little guy, all of 27 pounds dripping wet--if that. And a mind like a Demon. Quick. Funny.
And pretty darn seductive. I have no doubt that when he is leading the world, he will have minions. Henchmen. Sidekicks. All to do his bidding.
How do I know?
We're at the circus yesterday--which of course he loved. And he was having a great time. And all of a sudden, in the midst of the noise and the commotion of a huge circus show, he slings his arm around my neck, like some high school senior getting ready to try to cop a feel on his date. And he leans in really close, and says in my ear, "You're beautiful, you know." EXACTLY like that.
Like WTF? Not like an average 2-year-old, with "I love you ,mommy." Or "I'm having a good time." But this swaggering kind of Frank Sinatra persona.
I fear when he runs the world. I really do.
And pretty darn seductive. I have no doubt that when he is leading the world, he will have minions. Henchmen. Sidekicks. All to do his bidding.
How do I know?
We're at the circus yesterday--which of course he loved. And he was having a great time. And all of a sudden, in the midst of the noise and the commotion of a huge circus show, he slings his arm around my neck, like some high school senior getting ready to try to cop a feel on his date. And he leans in really close, and says in my ear, "You're beautiful, you know." EXACTLY like that.
Like WTF? Not like an average 2-year-old, with "I love you ,mommy." Or "I'm having a good time." But this swaggering kind of Frank Sinatra persona.
I fear when he runs the world. I really do.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
When Goats Fly
We have Canadian geese who sometimes take over the golf course. The pond. Sometimes so many of them fly, they blot out the sun. They honk. They crap everywhere. They are noisy. And I love them.
The owner of the golf course? Not so much. But nonetheless, here they are. Every day. The remind me of my grandfather who used to take me to feed the ducks--and geese. I love hearing them honking.
This morning, Demon Baby woke me by climbing in my bed and putting his cheek against mine.
"I love you, Mama."
"Love you, too, Demon Baby."
The geese began honking.
"The goats are here."
"What?"
"They're flying. They're going to eat our house."
"They are not going to eat our house."
"Should I tell the goats to go away?"
"They're geese."
"Goats."
"No. Both are g-words. But those are GEESE. Not GOATS."
"They're goats."
When goats fly . . .
The owner of the golf course? Not so much. But nonetheless, here they are. Every day. The remind me of my grandfather who used to take me to feed the ducks--and geese. I love hearing them honking.
This morning, Demon Baby woke me by climbing in my bed and putting his cheek against mine.
"I love you, Mama."
"Love you, too, Demon Baby."
The geese began honking.
"The goats are here."
"What?"
"They're flying. They're going to eat our house."
"They are not going to eat our house."
"Should I tell the goats to go away?"
"They're geese."
"Goats."
"No. Both are g-words. But those are GEESE. Not GOATS."
"They're goats."
When goats fly . . .
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Lions
I am taking Demon Baby to his first circus on Sunday.
He is very excited.
I have told him there will be clowns and elephants. Dogs. Horses. Trapeeze artists. Popcorn and Cracker Jack. Lions and tigers.
And if I wanted a more potent reminder of how fearlessly crazy this kid is, it was when we discussed the lions today.
"We will go into the ring and FIGHT the lions."
"No, Demon Baby, they have lion tamers for that." I held up my hands, leaned in close to his nose, and did a play roar. "ROOOARR!" And then I laughed.
He smiled and said, "No!!! WE FIGHT THEM! It will be fun! It will be great!" (He's very articulate for age 2. He says exactly what he thinks.)
The look of sheer glee at the prospect of fighting the lions was joyous.
And for the thousandth time in this toddler's life, I just shook my head and smiled at his Demon Baby ways.
So Sunday? I suppose we shall be fighting lions.
He is very excited.
I have told him there will be clowns and elephants. Dogs. Horses. Trapeeze artists. Popcorn and Cracker Jack. Lions and tigers.
And if I wanted a more potent reminder of how fearlessly crazy this kid is, it was when we discussed the lions today.
"We will go into the ring and FIGHT the lions."
"No, Demon Baby, they have lion tamers for that." I held up my hands, leaned in close to his nose, and did a play roar. "ROOOARR!" And then I laughed.
He smiled and said, "No!!! WE FIGHT THEM! It will be fun! It will be great!" (He's very articulate for age 2. He says exactly what he thinks.)
The look of sheer glee at the prospect of fighting the lions was joyous.
And for the thousandth time in this toddler's life, I just shook my head and smiled at his Demon Baby ways.
So Sunday? I suppose we shall be fighting lions.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Army Men
I grew up with two sisters. Barbies ruled the day. I wasn't a tomboy. I imagined Barbie lives of nearly unimaginable wealth and success and marriage to Ken, who always had a vague "job" where he made millions without having to do much but go off to work and then come home and have make-out sessions with Barbie.
I had a daughter first. By then I had become a staunch feminist and was against Barbie on principle. But Oldest Daughter liked Barbie, and so she got the Barbie yacht and pool and mansion. And tons of clothes. Considering Oldest Daughter is a major clothes horse . . . perhaps it was a mistake.
Along came Son #1. He wasn't that into cars. He liked puzzles and math things. Quieter toys. And Buzz Lightyear.
Baby #3 was a girl. She wasn't all that into Barbie. She liked watching old movies with me. She kind of emerged sophisticated, choosing watching GYPSY with Natalie Wood over cartoons--even as young as three.
And now . . . Demon Baby.
He got a gift of green plastic Army men. And he asked me to play "soldiers" with him. So I got down on my belly on the floor, and we set up 200 men. Then Demon Baby knocks them down. I scream out, "MEDIC! I need a MEDIC!!!!" And he laughs. Then stomps on more men.
Then, because this is ME we're talking about, I say, "Time for Peace Talks." We choose a city (Paris, most often). And I stand the Amry men up facing each other, and say, "Why can't we be friends. Let us unite in our loathing of a common enemy, the fascist leader . . . ." (and I fill in a name, most often the leader of the United States). We agree to shake on things and be friends. Demon Baby gives me a thumbs up on peace. I give him one. We high-five each other that the Peace Talks of Paris 2008 have been so successful. I suggest we toast each other with champagne and escargot.
Then Demon Baby stomps on the Peace Talks.
And I realize . . . well, he is just my special little Demon. And I adore him. And his little green Army Men.
I had a daughter first. By then I had become a staunch feminist and was against Barbie on principle. But Oldest Daughter liked Barbie, and so she got the Barbie yacht and pool and mansion. And tons of clothes. Considering Oldest Daughter is a major clothes horse . . . perhaps it was a mistake.
Along came Son #1. He wasn't that into cars. He liked puzzles and math things. Quieter toys. And Buzz Lightyear.
Baby #3 was a girl. She wasn't all that into Barbie. She liked watching old movies with me. She kind of emerged sophisticated, choosing watching GYPSY with Natalie Wood over cartoons--even as young as three.
And now . . . Demon Baby.
He got a gift of green plastic Army men. And he asked me to play "soldiers" with him. So I got down on my belly on the floor, and we set up 200 men. Then Demon Baby knocks them down. I scream out, "MEDIC! I need a MEDIC!!!!" And he laughs. Then stomps on more men.
Then, because this is ME we're talking about, I say, "Time for Peace Talks." We choose a city (Paris, most often). And I stand the Amry men up facing each other, and say, "Why can't we be friends. Let us unite in our loathing of a common enemy, the fascist leader . . . ." (and I fill in a name, most often the leader of the United States). We agree to shake on things and be friends. Demon Baby gives me a thumbs up on peace. I give him one. We high-five each other that the Peace Talks of Paris 2008 have been so successful. I suggest we toast each other with champagne and escargot.
Then Demon Baby stomps on the Peace Talks.
And I realize . . . well, he is just my special little Demon. And I adore him. And his little green Army Men.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Creativity
Just when I think Demon Baby has hit the wall. Has thought of every, single michievious deed that can be done . . . he does something so astounding.
Today, it was telling me the boxes of Jello ASKED him (literally spoke to him) to "free" them from the pantry. And they ASKED to be dumped into the bathtub so they could take a bath with him.
I'll say this.
The kid is creative.
Today, it was telling me the boxes of Jello ASKED him (literally spoke to him) to "free" them from the pantry. And they ASKED to be dumped into the bathtub so they could take a bath with him.
I'll say this.
The kid is creative.
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