Destruction is My Middle Name

Destructo Baby has struck again. That little girl of mine is like a one person wrecking machine. When I think back and try to remember something that my son has broken, I come up blank. I can recall lots of things that my husband has broken though, and I am beginning to wonder if the baby has come by it honestly enough. Perhaps there is a chromosome that dictates clumsiness or a strong liking to hear things smash.

This past week my baby broke the glass in my only tabletop frame, and has obliterated two of my fondue/dipping dishes. I had two sets of four dipping dishes, now I have two sets of three; the least she could have done was to break two dishes from the same set, leaving me with one complete set.

I have tried to interest the child in plastic dishes and Tupperware containers to no avail. It would seem that although she is a bit of a monkey, she remains a little girl in that place that likes pretty things. She continued to go back to the cupboard that housed those baby-sized dishes that seemed just her size.

It would have behooved me to move these items when she showed such a relentless interest in them. Having such a small amount of cabinet space as I have, the task overwhelmed me and I settled myself into the knowledge that I would have to keep a watchful eye and reprimand as I saw fit.

Or maybe it was just laziness that kept me from doing a bit of rearranging in the kitchen. After all, my son has lived three years so far without smashing anything beyond its potential to be used. The death of that second dish cured me of my laziness though. Where once rested two small serving bowls and eight dipping plates there is now a handful of travel mugs. These are much harder to destroy and are not as tempting to the eyes and hands of a baby bent on destruction.