Not a day goes by that my son doesn't try to destroy something; sometimes it's my shit (sorry, but we're going to fill up my imaginary swear jar today). More often, it's my will to live. And he doesn't just break things that need to be replaced. He breaks things that need to be repaired. Thankfully, I can do that, but it's already hard enough to not want to strap him to something...anything.
It's an emotional roller coaster. You irrationally and disproportionately love certain things in your home and when one of those precious little maggots (thankfully, I only have one) finds ___(insert item destroyed)___ amusing. I, now know, why my mom always said this to my sister and I... "Can I not have just one thing that is mine that nobody destroys?" My answer: No, you can't. You have kids.
These warnings fell on deaf ears. Fuck...I should have listened.
I could feel the blood rushing to my face and my first impulse was to scream, swap and stomp at everything in my immediate vicinity. My face looked like a tomato and I'm sure my son could feel the heat radiating off my body.
However, I didn't know this until today, that he has a hiding spot. Then again, he's never had to hide from me before. I found him tucked away in the corner of the family room, behind all his toys and my father's recliner. If you didn't know the check back there, you would have never found him. The only reason I checked back there, is because when he was 9 months old, that was his favorite place to play.
What the fiz-nuck? That doesn't even make any goddamn sense!
I called Mark from corner and asked him what happened...he covered his eyes with his hands, as if to jedi-mind-trick-me into thinking if 'I don't see you, then you can't see me' and this whole conversation never happened.
Well, it's happening...and mama is pissed.
Upon questioning, he told me he 'uh-oh-ed'. Whatever his reasoning, it was clearly an impulsive decision, common in children ages one to twenty-three. My opinions were to berate my space-cadet toddler or just accept that my son is going to slowly and methodically demolish the house and it's my job as his mother to fix it... so he can do it again. Which is exactly won't happen. Haha. It will, who am I kidding.
I am currently traveling with a circus...a one-man-act to be exact.
This kind of thing happens around here approximately every five minutes...or so. Anytime I think about buying something nice, I seriously wonder about the horrible things a toddler can do to them in a matter of minutes. Can it be something I can protect from his evil ways? Probably not. This question alone has me question everything I want to purchase, but at the same time, also makes me think of different ways to reuse the furniture I already have - since it's already battered. There are only so many interceptions of bowls of cereal, mid-vomit to spew rocket launches and diaper ejectiles you can protect said items from.
Now, what did he break? Thankfully, it was just something I received as a donation, so there wasn't any sentimental value to it...but it was the sound of something crashing and shattering that set me off. I knew, just by the sound...where he was, what he was doing and that he may possibly be somewhere else when I got to that room in the house.
Then, there are those days that he will find a drawer open and reach his curious fingers into (he also can't peer his little eyes over) taking the 50/50 chance of getting something to take his destroying techniques to the next level... how about a marker? as in permanent. As in a total state of despair. As in, I probably would get more enjoyment from lighting said item on fire. Thankfully, by a cause of fate, I caught him from drawing on my mom's nice cream sofa - within centimeters. That boy was seriously saved by the bell. If blue permanent marker would have made it onto the sofa, I would have no issue to shell out a few hundred bucks and sign a check to my mother to replace it. I eventually would take that sofa with me when Mark and I move out. I'll just have furniture with "character."
He's definitely my child. He's made from peanut M&M's and mac & cheese. I held him and rocked him to sleep countless times. I cared for him when he was sick and cleaned his puke from my hair and don't even get me started on the number of times I've polished his ass.
Not to mention, the tongue and finger prints on the television, smears on the walls (which I make him grab a magic eraser for), scratches on the cabinets, dents in the doors... my house looks like a war zone.
One day last month, I noticed Mark being quiet...for a good long while. Uh oh! Nothing good has every happened when kinds are quiet for a long time, unless they're asleep. So, I quietly made my way down the hall and into the bathroom (which is usually closed with a baby proof door knob). I found Mark covered in baby powder, before I even had a chance to react, he squeezed the bottle again and a cloud of white covered him and the bathroom.
I think it's fair to say that in that moment, I was clinically insane.
It's shit like this that makes me want to hit the "Fuck It" button and Control Alt Delete myself away to a padded room where saving my house and things from my son is just part of my schizophrenic delusions.
I saved my son from the white cloud, placed him in the tub and laughed, followed by some very strong language. That's right. I basically caged him while I tried to get back in touch with reality. Don't get next to this fire.
The bathroom was eventually cleaned. A few weeks later, I caught him in the bathroom reaching for the same damn bottle. He was seriously saved by that bell. If I had to witness another cloud puff of baby powder, I think I would need something stronger than booze to bring me back.
Now, I keep a container of wipes just inside the bedroom door (which is next to the bathroom) to clean his curious fingers. Clearly, he can not be trusted anywhere in the house alone. I've decided when he leaves for college, I'm going to light what's left of this house on fire.
How much do I owe to my swear jar?