Because I Can't Make This Stuff Up

I may be a novelist, but there is no way I can make this stuff up. The following is a true story. Every word of it.

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"Demon Baby . . . where are your pants?"

"I had to take them off."

"I doubt that. Go find your pants."

"No, I really had to take them off."

"Why?"

"They were scorched."

[Aside: as the mother of a Demon Baby, "scorched" is most definitely NOT a word I want to hear.]

"What do you MEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN scorched?"

"The fireplace is on."

"Please tell me you did not put your pants in the fireplace."

"No. I put my butt up to the fireplace."

"Why would you do that?"

In walks older sister, age 11.

"What happened?" I asked.

"He put his butt up to the fireplace glass."

"WHY? Can someone in this house tell me what is going on?"

"It's her fault my pants are scorched," said Demon Baby.

"Her fault?"

"Yeah. She told me our fireplace works on gas."

Older sister crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. "He was trying to fart into the fireplace to make the flames go higher."

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Yeah. I know.

Playing Pretend with Demon Baby

This child's look says it all. He lives life with imagination and mischief.

So last night, Demon Baby and I played "restaurant." He cooked. I was the food taster. He has a lot of plastic food, an apron, a few utensils, and a play stove. He cooked me an assortment of food.

"Taste!" he commanded.

"Delicious."

"Quantify. How many stars?"

"How many stars?"

"For your review?"

"Oh. Five stars. I quantify this as a five-star meal."

"I need a BILLION lady."

"Then you better cook more food."

He went about cooking even more gourmet meals.

He fed me.

"Now how many stars?"

"A hundred thousand." (I mean, if I had to get to a BILLION . . .)

"That's better."

He cooked more. I had to feign rapture over each dish. "Delicious! . . . My compliments to the chef."

"You need to eat faster."

"Why?"

"Before a bomb explodes in my restaurant and sends us all to smithereens." (Only Demon Baby would combine worldwide destruction and playing restaurant.)

"Um . . . that's not a nice thought."

"These are not nice aliens, lady."

So I ate faster. "I'm really getting FULL, chef," I said after about a half-hour.

"I have JUST the solution for situations like these."

"What?"

"Open your mouth."

"But I'm full."

"Just open your mouth."

He approached me with his tiny pretend dust-buster vacuum. He held it up to my mouth. "This device sucks all the food out of you so you can eat again. You won't be full in about one minute. Just hold still."

So he sucked out all the food. "How very Roman of you, Demon Baby."

"It's not Roman. We just need to finish all this food before the aliens destroy our planet. It would be a shame to waste a five-star meal."

Demon Baby's New Pets

A jar full of worms.

There is a trail of dirt through my house that has me questioning whether Demon Baby is a little worm himself.

And for the record, he says his worms live in "soil," not dirt.

Just so you know. They're classy worms.

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.