Cooking Demon Style

Demon Baby has a new passion. He likes to "help" cook.

The thing is, it really, really makes him happy. You have never SEEN a child so filled with utter JOY as when he gets to help cook or bake.

His father is a foodie and a former chef, so I suppose it makes sense. But to give you an idea . . . he woke at 6:30 today and ran shrieking through the house singing "The Pancake Song" because he was going to get to make pancakes. The Pancake Song pretty much consists of screaming out, "I'M MAKING PANCAKES" in a sing-song way. Five hundred times in a row.

After mixing the batter, he got to stand and watch for the "bubbles" that signaled it was time to flip them. But he doesn't, even though you are standing there right next to him, say, "It's time to flip." No . . . instead, he screams it, he shouts it, he cannot contain his exuberance at the miracle of the pancake griddle.

We made grape Jello two days ago. You would have thought we cooked a 12-course French meal.

But . . . you know no story of Demon Baby is complete with . . . well, DEMON BABY. So yes, in general, cooking with him is a disaster. He thinks it's funny to put the spatula IN the batter. As in bury it in the bowl so it's a gloopy mess.

He "aims" for the bowl when pouring in ingredients.

He makes it about half the time.

At least when he cooks, the dogs feast.

Oh, and one more thing. Demon Baby doesn't think he needs me to cook. So his new "thing" is taking strange ingredients and combining them to make soup. Thus, yesterday, I gave him a bowl of Life cereal (no milk) for a snack. I came in to write in my office. He found a half-full can of Diet Coke left on a table by his sister and added that to the Life cereal. Then he went into the kitchen and took leftover rice and added that to it. Then he decorated generously with M&Ms. Then he stirred. A lot.

The results?

Positively frightening.

Survivor

Life with Demon Baby is like a reality show.

Imagine . . . you are in the shower, naked, soaped up, shampoo in your hair. You hear someone trying to break down the bathroom door with an axe. What do you do?

You don't even rinse, you run, dripping wet (trying not to slip and kill yourself) and open the door to find . . . not an axe murderer, but Demon Baby, using a heavy book as a hammer and trying to break down the door so he can . . . "keep you company."

How fast can you race up a flight of stairs before he hurls a container of yogurt over the balcony landing?

Can you rescue the dog with irritable bowel before Demon Baby feeds him M&Ms and corn?

I can imagine the show, the challenges. It's not for the faint of heart.

And that is why babysitters and family members don't "watch" Demon Baby. They "survive" him.

Our babysitter "survived" on Tuesday.

Babysitter

Realistically speaking, when you have a Demon Baby, you don't torture some poor, unsuspecting babysitter with him. Realistically speaking, few people in the universe can handle him. RELATIVES who are supposed to LOVE him can barely handle him.

But today, just this once, Demon Baby is having a babysitter because the choice was either a) hire a babysitter, or b) find me a strait jacket, because Oldest Daughter graduates high school today and there is NO WAY he is sitting through a multi-hour ceremony downtown.

I pay my babysitters REALLY well. Above the going rate. I call it the Demon Surcharge.

Pray for my babysitter today.

More Vocabulary

Besides having an "astounding" vocabulary (because he uses that word), Demon Baby is creative in ways that never cease to amuse me.

He even makes up words to suit his Demon Purposes.

First, he called his Grandma a "Meany-pants."

All right, so that's not horribly original. Saying it to your GRANDMA. Yeah. That's a little original for a three-year-old.

But the one I love is when he thinks I am being too hard on him (such as for CALLING his Grandma a Meany-pants). Then he has a made-up word.

"You're being such a FREAKIMUS!"

Yes. A freakimus.

I choose to think it's a combination for "freakin' genius."

Big Bubbles, Big Words

Demon Baby wanted a bath today.

"With or without?" (For those not familiar with Demon Baby bath lingo, I was asking him with bubbles or without.)

"With."

"With bubbles." (I am in the habit of repeating things to be sure, since he can change his mind, like most toddlers, in the space of seconds or from one thought to the next.)

"Big bubbles!" He extended his hands up into the air.

"Big. Gotcha."

"No. HUGE bubbles."

"You got it."

"HUMONGOUS! I want humongous bubbles!"

And I started thinking about it. About his vocabulary. He's 3, and he doesn't use any baby words. He's very articulate.

"You're a great kid, Demon Baby."

"I'm extraordinary, when you think about it, Mom."

Yes. Humongously extraordinary, Demon Baby.

Just humongous.

I Live in a Cheap Diner and My Kid Is a Frat Boy

Just found out.

Demon Baby loves gum. He doesn't get to have it often. But it's a treat once in a while.

No more.

Demon Baby apparently sticks his gum under the kitchen table. Like a cheap diner or your 7th-grade school desk.

Oh, there's more.

He now likes to pee outside. In fact, if he's in the yard, chances are he is now marking his territory. Like some beer-addled frat boy.

I live in a diner. My kid is in Phi Kappa Grossness.

More Names

I was putting Demon Baby to bed last night, and on my way up the staircase with him in my arms, he shouted out "Good night, Moe!"

I should know better than to ask, but I asked anyway.

"Who's Moe?"

"My friend."

"Okay."

"See ya, Moe!"

We were halfway up when he said, "My car is named Moe."

"Your car? The one you ride on."

"Yeah. It's my favorite. He's Moe."

"All righty, then. Good night, Moe!"

"And don't forget . . . I'm Kirby Tun-Link." (see post below)

"I would never forget that, Kirby, pal."

I wonder if I am going to get a new name soon.