Until last November we had an only child. A ten-year-old only child. Then, suddenly, we had a tiny-year-old too. A busy, clever, sneaky, adorable tiny-year-old. In the span of two weeks, this busy, sneaky little guy had blown up our computer, irreparably broken our VCR (yeah, we still have one of those and a home phone too *gasp*), and disabled the kindle fire.
It is not as if we hadn’t child-proofed the place. In order to have a foster parent license, you have to child proof like you wouldn’t believe. We have locks on things we never knew could be locked before. Shoot. We have secret locks. Come see if you can find them.
Child-proofing is the way we protect our little ‘uns. It’s also the way we protect our stuff. Sometimes, I think we get confused about which is more important – the stuff or the little ‘uns. My big ‘un likes to remind me. Whenever he breaks something, he very smoothly says, “It’s okay mom, you love me more than you loved that and you’re just glad I’m okay.” The snarky attitude? I think it’s a genetic thing.
What I’d like to know is why no child-proofing system actually works! These tiny world hackers are two steps ahead of us adults. We invent outlet covers and they invent pole vaulting over the dining room table. Okay. That’s not real. No one is doing that in my house – the pointy chandelier would put a swift end to that.
But really! I can’t stay ahead of it. Tiny-year-old was particularly busy today. He foiled the high chair straps. I knew he liked to put them together but I didn’t know he had the reverse down yet. I turned my back for two seconds this morning and, fwomp! kiddo’s on the floor. He foiled my “rubber band around the cupboard door handles” today – looks like we need all new wii controllers. And he realized he can push a kitchen chair next to anything, then push the footstool next to that and he has a whole new world to explore – countertops, table tops. He is 19-months-old! Good Gravy!
Last week, I took him to the doctor and put him on the scale. He is so in love with pushing buttons, he kept turning off the scale before the nurse could get the reading.
I guess I’m wondering … is this normal? Is this kiddo an engineer in the making or is it just that I never had time to acclimate to the toddlerness of him? He dropped into my arms fully formed in his mischievousness. Did he leave the same path of destruction in his crawling wake?
Mostly I’m tickled. Things really are just things. I love on him when he fwomps. I repair what he breaks. I insert his middle name in an exasperated voice when he does these things and then I watch in fascination as he proves that even the state hasn’t thought of all the ways he can get his little self into all manner of trouble.