Because bad stuff happens. A lot of it involves the dog. And his food.
Sometimes it involves his water bowl. We are nothing if not flexible in our naughtiness.
And when that gets dull, things like this happen.
Or this lovely number. My wedding ring and a binki are floating around in there as well but they aren't as visible as the upside down lighthouse figurine, sticking out the side (wouldn't fit no matter how hard he jammed it in there).
Ahhh, this is a particular favorite. He leaves his calling card, a bit like a serial killer leaving a red rose at the scene of the crime. He taunts the police, er, parents.
I'm not including photo evidence of this mornings adventure though. He managed to wrestle off the so-called (ha!) child proof cap to a brand spankin' new bottle of Nyquil. It was the cherry flavor. It looked like the scene of a particularly brutal massacre in my kitchen. Or childbirth. In any case, it wasn't suitable for the camera, and besides, I was trying to determine whether or not to call poison control. Add to that that I am OUT OF PAPER TOWELS. I don't know who's been wasting my precious paper babies with reckless abandon around here but it has got to stop. On the bright side though, the doped up little gremlin took the best nap EVER.
Gianni David is a sweet pea though. Really. He is. Deep, deep down inside. Sometimes I tackle him for a cuddle and once I crush him beneath me and grab both his dirty little paws so he can't pull my hair, it's a lovely cuddle. He's a busy little guy and it's a good thing he's so handsome - people will let him live longer. You can't stay mad at a 24 inch tall Brad Pitt, can you? I didn't think so. Here are some things about Gianni.
We call him Luigi sometimes. This is because his great grandmother thought we named him that. It was never on the table of options for his name, but that's ok. She wrote it in her birthday book right next to his birthday, so, she says, it must be true. We must have named him that and in a strange fit of amnesia, forgot what we named him and renamed him Gianni. Actually his name came about because 1. it's Italian. 2. Mike hated, loathed, despised, wanted to set fire to every other name of the male persuasion I came up with during pregnancy, and if he kept that up I was going to set fire to HIM. So when I suggested Gianni and he didn't make gagging noises, it stuck. 3. It's unusual, but not so unusual that people avoid us in life. 4. We found out later that Mike actually has an uncle Gianni. This is the story and I swear to heaven I am not making this up: uncle Gianni has never worked a day in his life and is very, very rich. We also have an uncle Vinny. Nope. Not kidding. So watch yourselves, people, we have ties. Ferghettaboutit!
He watches too much television. I blame... ok, I blame myself. But he's an early riser and that's about all we can do with him at 6 am: pop something in the vcr and slobber into our coffee for an hour or so. He loves Veggietales, The Jungle Book, Cars, Finding Nemo, and Ice Age. All of which I now despise because I know them backwards, forwards, front and back, inside out, and sideways. I tried throwing in some romantic comedies, but they were a no go. Typical man. And I take that back, that part about despising Veggietales. No one could despise Veggietales. Where else can you find The Boys in the Sink singing the Bellybutton Song? Or The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything? Or bible stories told like a western bible story with french peas? Or The Pizza Angel? Or The Lord of the Beans, starring Toto Baggypants and the evil Sporks (those unnatural hybrid creations between a spoon and a fork). Nowhere, I tell you.
He can climb to great heights. I don't mean that in a "oh my sweet baby can do anything he wants in life," no, I mean literally there is no high surface the monkey can't figure out a way onto. Yesterday he was microwaving all my pot holders on the Baked Potato setting. Not impressive unless you understand that it's an under the counter microwave and that he had to first get up on that counter, and then precariously cross the surface of the stove on his fat little piggies, and somehow manage to pull open the nuker's handle which by all the laws of gravity promise, should have flung him into space.
He talks, but not in your garden variety English. This is occasionally a problem because when he talks he expects you to repeat him. You know, so he knows you got it. No "hmmm, uh huh, interesting" or noncommittal sounds will do. You must repeat what he just told you, word for word. If he shouts, "ig oooooo uck!" you'd better quickly reply, "big blue truck!" There normally will be a big blue truck at this juncture, which certainly helps. If you can't however figure out what it is he's foaming at the mouth about, and there are no trucks about, big, blue or otherwise, then things get sticky. You'll probably have to distract him with a lollipop or a handful of Alpo.
He is so addicted to his binki that when he doesn't have it, he still goes to remove it before taking a sip of water. It's like a tic. I know, you think this is terrible, but I find it hilarious. So sue me, tics are funny.
One of his favorite things to do lately is to put on Sugarland's song "All I Wanna Do" and play his air guitar and sing. I tried to videotape it but he wouldn't cooperate. Also he was naked and maybe it was only his mother who would find that sight irresistibly delectable. I had to abandon the camcorder and tackle him.
He knows a lot of his colors!! I had to put that in for bragging rights, and also because it makes me feel like less of a failure as a homeschool mom. Ok, yeah, maybe we are STILL working on memorizing the times tables for like, the 3489365.847623 month in a row, but my not quite two year old can point out blue, green, red, orange, and purple. Or boo, 'een, wed, owag, and purple. Purple is easily pronounceable for a baby apparently.
There's probably more, but I'm suddenly very, very tired. I think I'll lick what's left of the Nyquil off the floor and go take a nap.