Master Menace and Miss Mischief

I needed a baby sitter last night. Unfortunately for my sister, she was available and I could drop the kids off at her place on my way to where I needed to go. One hour and a half passed from the time I left her apartment until the time I got back. In that short amount of time my dear sister’s face had gone from the normal I’ve-had-a-stressful-day-at-work look to the worn and lined face of a veteran mother.

I was afraid to ask if the children had behaved. The terrible two’s are upon us in full force and my son can hardly stay out of trouble for more than two or three minutes at a time; his little sister, climber-extraordinaire, is a spider monkey that picks up and tastes anything in her path. It would seem that neither of the kids had given their auntie an easy time of it.

My son thought that it would be foolish to waste an opportunity to practice his stunts, and he stood on an empty box that proceeded to collapse under his weight and pitch him face-first over the arm of the couch and into the small corner shelf. He is now sporting a bruisy looking cut on the left side of his face. He opened and closed doors, riffled through the fridge and did somersaults on the furniture.

His little sister occupied her time by nibbling on crayons and drinking out of her brother’s cup in an attempt to catch his cold. That was a successful venture, as her nose is now completely stopped up with boogers.

My sister’s weary expression got me wondering: if she looks like that after a short time, what must my husband see in my face when he gets home from work after a long day? I’m beginning to understand why he sometimes takes a hesitant glance at me upon arriving home and then begin to edge his way toward the door with the look of a frightened animal on his face. It’s possible that the lack of makeup and my wild hair are responsible for this effect on his countenance, but I’m betting it’s the crazed look in my eye that sends him scuttling for the way out.

Evel And Knievel

The doctor’s office called back- nothing abnormal showed up with the baby’s blood work. Through the nurse’s thick Latino accent I caught the words “urine” and “analysis”: she said that the doctor would talk with me about that at the baby’s appointment next month. Yippee.

At this point I don’t see a reason to worry about the fact that she’s so tiny. She is happy, healthy, and super active. I had to remove the little rocking chair from the living room because she has taken to climbing it and rocking it wildly back and forth while standing on the seat and facing in the wrong direction. Even though she has a great sense of balance she couldn’t resist throwing herself from the chair a time or two and whacking her head on the toys littered around the base of the chair.

Every morning after we descend the stairs to the first floor I make sure to pull the gate across the landing to cut off her route upstairs. This produces an almost otherworldly wail from the baby, as she likes nothing better than to scurry her way up those stairs and sit at the top laughing and clapping her hands while peeking over the edge.

While cooking dinner the other day, I heard a clattering sound under the table where I was stationed. I looked down and there was the baby peering through the slats in the chair; using the training potty as a ladder, she had climbed up onto the chairs and was lying across both of them. That was a new trick, and boy was she proud.

This child is dangerous. She frightens me. If presented with two paths across a room, she will usually choose the obstacle course instead of the clear route. It’s not enough that I have my hands full keeping her brother from riding his bicycle down the stairs, or jumping it off of the couch. Oh, no. I used to think that it was safe to watch old movies with children. It’s possible that I may need to rethink my opinion: believe it or not, he assimilated the bicycle stunts from a two-second scene in Singing In The Rain.