Last night I aged three years; I am certain that at least a dozen of my blondish brown hairs turned gray in the instant I turned and saw my sweet Punkin holding three large kitchen knives in his chubby little hands. Actually, at first I'm not sure I saw all three. My eyes locked on one as he laughed, thrust it into the air, and yelled, "FIGHDER!" My mother and I commenced screeching and pleading while he continued laughing, and pretty soon we had ever-so-gently wrangled the knives from his fingers. The last one was almost vomit inducing, as he was holding it by its 8 inch blade (as in not the handle). And I couldn't help but be reminded of Maddy's plight to safegaurd her house. For many of us, it is a feeble attempt, as our children don't understand danger or why standing on a four and half foot wall between the living room and kitchen is generally discouraged. And they are way too clever and way too strong, in many cases, to bow to safety latches on cabinet doors or breakables placed up high.
After the knife incident, I had every intention of going home and enjoying a glass of RELAX-- a sweet white wine in a blue bottle towards which my aunts would wrinkle their noses. But the Turkey, err Punkin, had other plans. Like staying up until 11pm. And waking up. A lot. All night. Kinda like the night before.
But this time he's waking up because he's sick. The doctor saw fluid in both his ears and the green snot all over his face was a pretty good clue that he probably has a sinus infection as well. Yummy. Hope you're not reading this over lunch.