Wednesday, 26 September 2012
Baby D is a little over a year and half now, and while he still refuses to speak English and only communicates in Babynese, the other hamsters in his head are definitely turning their wheels. His understanding of how things work is frightening, and coupled with his spider-monkey-on-steroids acrobatics, this leads to one clever little ankle-biter.
During breakfast, second breakfast, brunch, snacktime, lunch, snacktime, or dinner, Baby D makes sure that everyone is fed, including the dog. He'll be a polite table-guest for a few minutes, tricking me into thinking it's safe to go wash the chalk off the walls, or pick up the dismembered package of baby wipes, then start calling, "DOB (dog)! DOB! DOB!" There comes the dog, eager to eat as much of anything that isn't puppy chow as possible, and Baby D will extend a hand of goodies her way. As soon as she's within slobbering reach though, Baby D retracts his hand and smacks her across the face. Being the masochistic bitch that she is, the dog assumes that he only hits her because he loves her, so she stops her cowering and returns, and the teasing and traumatizing hitting continues until mama steps in.
When we play outside (play being getting a tan while the hell hounds tire themselves out before I lock them back in their Graco kennels), Baby D likes to test my limits. He'll run down the driveway until I shout out, "Baby D! Not in the street!" at which point he stops, creeps up until his toes are right at the edge of the driveway, and turns a deranged grin my way. "Don't do it, baby." The demon grin widens and he touches the street with one tip-toe. The time-out countdown begins, "One...two..." and Baby D runs back over to me, before yelling and shaking first one finger, then two fingers in my face.
The poor dog and I get most of Baby D's taunting, and his tolerable, well-behaved antics are save for Daddy & Tiny, however even his baby brother isn't totally safe. Baby D has taken to sharing his food with 6-month-old Tiny, and somehow the little one manages to inhale it (yesterday he at half a turkey sandwich, which I didn't realize until I saw the remnants of it on his high-chair tray). He even will hold Tiny in his lap and feed him a bottle, though as soon as my eyes go elsewhere, Baby D chugs as much formula as he can. When it comes to toys however, Tiny gets the short end of the stick. For the most part, Baby D will share, but when it comes to his SPECIAL toy box, the fiery inferno rises from the earth and engulfs the planet. The special toys are Baby D's Hot Wheels & a framed wallet-size photo of Daddy in preschool, which he stores in a Cars Easter basket. Tiny is of course interested in the Hot Wheels, since they are painted the most delicious of colors, and when he gets a hold of one the security devices are triggered and Baby D will appear, flailing, screaming, grabbing, & kicking. Every toy in the room gets thrown, every person is pushed away from the Hot Wheels, Baby D lifts poor Tiny up and drags him by the diaper far away, before Baby D throws himself on the floor in a screaming, thunderstorm tantrum.
Eventually the world is calm.
The children quiet themselves.
Mama comes out of her fetal position.
And Baby D convinces me yet again that he isn't actually Lucifer in an adorable baby suit.
Are there other moms out there who relate to the antics of my household? Cheers to you!