I’ve been sort of kind of joking about how it’s the toddler sending me back to work. God – I suppose he isn’t even a toddler anymore, being closer to 3 than 2. But lord love a duck, I’ve been pushed to the brink of insanity and worse over the last month or so as he’s been just appalling to deal with. 

Fortunately for him, he sometimes crosses over feral jackass to being surprisingly charming and funny. You need some backstory for this one. Recently, he’s started hitting, and mostly just Ava. It’s just f-cking super. If anyone ever tells you to have your kids close together because there own’t be any jealousy issues, immediately slap them in the face for me. Maybe this isn’t jealousy but just bitter hated, but whatever it is, the fightingohmygod. Awful. Ava, of course, has perfect the art of the tattletale, even having a particular tone and pitch to her laments: “Cole hit meeeee. Cole hit me agaaaain.” We would intervene of course, but also snicker at this, and sometimes imitate. What?

Then Cole started repeating it. “Cole hit meeee.” Which was funny enough, but today I figured out that he has interpreted this statement to the appropriate opening for any complaint of any nature where he expects your intervention and assistance. For example:

“Cole hit me dropped my peeeeas.”
“Cole hit me I’m stuck.”
“Cole hit me [inaudible whimper whimper].”

So awesome. Poor chicken! He’s met with grief the last two weekends, blood included. The first time, I came upon him in the living room with red liquid spread all over the floor. He’s cheerfully yelling, “Is red paint! Paint! Is red paint!” And I’m like, moronically thinking, we have red paint in the living room? OH SHIT! He was bleeding from the foot, totally obliviously.

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