My toddler’s happiness is a short lived farce. A singing, dancing Little Man is one cookie denial away from exhibiting full on flopping fish syndrome. This type of behavior can happen at any given time; however, is most likely to occur in public areas such as the library or grocery store.
I’m one of the lucky ones, I have a husband that partners me in protecting my one year old from his own demise. However, I am a SAHM. I am on my own during the day. In addition to my one year old Little Man, I have a Sassy four year old. I need someone to tag and throw in the ring at least twice a day. That’s funny. Did I say twice a day? I meant twice within the hour. Anyone available? Anyone?
My husband and I haven’t slept a full night in 17 months. Longer for myself if I count the months my Little Man put on his acrobatic, one man show inside of me. Coffee isn’t cutting it anymore. Even when I do have a second to sit down with a fresh, warm cup, my son is sure to desecrate it with Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Legos, a banana or whatever else he sees fit to throw in there.
I need something quicker. Maybe, if I alternate red bull and speedballs, I’ll be juiced enough to catch him the next time he decides to sprint upstairs so he can throw whatever is in his hand in the toilet. I am so done wrapping my arm up with a plastic bag like a condom, so I can fish his sister’s finger nail polish out of the (never flushed) toilet.
There is an even stronger case for encouraging drug use of the mellow kind. The death defying stunts my Little Man attempts every 60 seconds leaves my heart constantly palpitating. A little person with no fear, learning how to walk down a set of stairs is terrifying enough. My Little Guy now likes to jump down, step by step, and leap to the bottom. The yellow and brown bruises adorning his forehead are proof that boys never learn.
I have a woodstove and a little boy that believes things that cause lethal scaring are the real things dreams are made of, despite his Mother’s furred brow when warning him with a “HOT!”.
Naturally, sharp objects are attractive. To a toddler, especially mine, shiny, sharp things like daddy’s screwdrivers are worthy of raising in the air like a lighter at a Def Leopard concert, while full on sprinting around the house. Do you know how many ways I envisioned my son’s death while chasing him to get the screwdrivers out of his tiny, dangerous little hands?
My little destroyer does not discriminate. It doesn’t matter if you are a friend, aunt, cousin or even his own sister. He will find your most prized possession and have his way with it. Thank God I saw this moment happening and saved Sassy 4yo’s most adored creation.
Have you ever seen a one year old try to surf on a rocker glider ottoman? Or how about a one year old that can scale windows? The jury is still out, but I may have had a drunken one nighter with Spider Man. There is no other explanation for Little Man’s death defying talent for climbing things.
Mothers concern themselves with putting too much sugar or hormones in to their child’s body (pshaw…what-ev). I laugh in the face of fruity pebbles laced with red 40 and yellow 6. My son has ingested crayons (the cheap, toxic kind), dog food, two day old snacks found under the couch in a wad of dog hair, insulation (it was just one bite, I swear), a dead bee that called his name from the window sill, play dough and has sucked on batteries for at least five minutes at a time. He may be a little radioactive, but he is healthy as a horse.
Surely you have been afraid at some point in your life. Well you don’t know fear until you see my Little Man coming at you with any sort of hard object in his hand. You have absolutely no idea what he is capable of or plans on doing with said object. I have seen grown men cower to a toy hammer or plastic serving spoon. Little Man may just want to show you this really cool thing he found, or he may want to pistol whip you with it because that is just. so. funny.
My Little Man dishes out heart attacks and tantrums just as often as hugs. It’s adorable, exhausting, frightening, alarming and thank God temporary, I know.
Does your toddler have a weapon of choice? How do you stay sane and composed when freak out session number 25 strikes at the grocery store check out aisle? Do you feel prompted to assure complete strangers that you don’t beat your child, because of the constant (always visible) bruises portrayed on your precious dare devil’s features?