Look at that face. Just look at it! That is the face of an angel, isn’t it? This seemingly angelic toddler has been waging psychological warfare on me all morning long. It’s like he was trained by highly vicious and manipulative master of breaking down a prisoner.
He’s going to make a fantastic black ops interrogator one day, of that, I am certain.
First thing is first. Knock over Mamma’s coffee (also known as the only thing that makes her not crazy cranky in the morning). Grrrrrr. As I get up to make another, I see he has procured this cheap little toy plane on a spring gun that I hate. Mostly, he can’t work it by himself (spring loading anything is a touch out of his wheelhouse) and second, it’s meant for outside so when you pull the trigger it really flies. I mean, to the moon, practically. Though when he gets his mind made up on something…he’s like a pit bull on a mission.
Another great trait in a black ops agent, by the way.
Coffee is brewing. I load that stupid plane gun thing since I still haven’t had a sip of said coffee and he’s already doing his persistent repeating thing.
Have I not mentioned this yet? When Jp wants something he will ask for it by one or two words over and over again. Think ‘über tenacious broken record player that can follow you’. There is no running, no hiding, no escape. I have to admit…there are days that he can break me down like the future interrogator he was born to be. “Fine! Fine! Eat Cheetos for breakfast! Aaaaarrrrrgggghhh!”
So we are back to the plane.
I load it up and supervise to make sure that is pointed away from his face (you’ll shoot your eye out, kid!) and he lets it soar. Up, up, up it goes…directly onto a decorative shelf that I would need a ladder to get to. He looks at me, totally bewildered, like it’s the first time he’s ever noticed that shelf was even there, and innocently asks, “Airplane?”.
Parsnickity! I can’t get that thing down! I would have to go to the garage, get a ladder, drag it in the house, set it up, move the ginormous TV, scale the ladder, acquire dollar store plane, and it would just happen again. Wash, rinse, repeat. Good riddance, in my opinion. Rest in peace, borderline-inappropriate-toy-that-my-husband-drug-home.
Jp does not agree.
Thus begins an hour and a half long battle of wills that would not be tamed. Remember the repeating thing? He did it for so long (intermixed with big, fake crocodile tears) my brain started to go numb and I was seeing spots (maybe from my eye twitching so badly?). He threw in some other items that he can’t have at 8:30 in the morning just for good measure.
For. An. Hour. And. A. Half.
By the time my husband woke up I was frazzled. I had tried everything in my arsenal and was one more “Plane?” away from dragging the ladder in and then checking myself into the loony bin.
The kid is a natural.
I’m just going to have to learn how to guide that skill so he uses it for good and not for evil. 😉
I'm just living minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day.