September 26, 2013
(So as per usual, I managed to trip on mah high heels and fall face first into unexpected drama. I very honestly [ZING!] was completely unaware that there was any controversy and such strong feelings about The Honest Company until the comments started rolling in — yesterday's post was my third sponsored post with them, and each time I've been treated with nothing but the utmost respect/kindness/bloggeriffic freedom, and literally knew NOTHING about the other blogger's experiences or the trademark dispute. Because I live in a hobbit hole, apparently. Anyway, as my intentions are always to merely amuse, never offend, I sincerely apologize to everyone who was angered or disappointed by yesterday's post. The Honest Company posted an update on the situation on Facebook and asked me to encourage y'all to reach out to them directly at email@example.com if you have any additional questions, comments or deep thoughts about things. So that is that. Can we still be friends?)
Yesterday afternoon I deployed my standard plan of action for OH CRAP THE INTERNET IS ANGERED-type situations: I backed away from the laptop in a panic and went outside to play with my children.
It's usually quite therapeutic and perspective-building, but this outing was totally monopolized by my two-year-old's repeated attempts to murder himself.
See, Noah was the sort of two-year-old who simply could not be bothered. I could set him down in a certain spot, scatter some complicated puzzle or building toy around him, and then leave the freaking room secure in the knowledge that he would still be in that spot when I returned. If you told him the stove was hot and knives were sharp he believed you, or just never particularly cared in the first place. He came preloaded with a natural distrust of things like stairs and wobbly furniture, which I of course took to be a testament to my amazeballs parenting skills that resulted in such a sensible toddler.
Then Ezra was born and spent his early toddlerhood kamikaze-ing off various high surfaces, careening onto escalators and being That Kid who couldn't walk across the living room without falling and splitting his face open. He wasn't hellbent on his own destruction or anything; he was just...kinda klutzy, and liked to mimic his older brother and write checks his noodly limbs couldn't cash. My friend used to joke that our similar disaster-prone children had no fear and even less sense, but by the time Ezra was two he really did settle down and develop a healthy respect for his surroundings. (I'm guessing all those bloody faceplants had something to do with it.) At the very least, he's a kid who only has to touch the hot stove once. After that, he's good.
And then there's Ike.
You know why my giant child is back to sitting in a high chair? Even though a few months ago I declared its usage obsolete? Because it is the only way we can make it through breakfast without him climbing up on the kitchen counter to conduct experiments with the toaster, that's why.
If I leave Ike alone in a room, he will figure out how to flood it. He will move furniture around and figure out how to climb on top of it. He will dig through a drawer and find a solitary book of matches that you had no idea was even there, and when you come back into the room he will be tearing the matches out, one by one, and trying to strike them. The fact that he'll be singing the Happy Birthday song will not make this scenario any less HOLY FUCKING SHIT.
The worst part with Ike, however, is not the "no fear" part. It's the fact that rather than having "even less sense," the kid is smart. Super smart. Because he knows. He knows he's not supposed to do any of those dangerous/destructive things. THAT'S WHY HE WAITS UNTIL YOU LEAVE THE ROOM TO DO THEM. DUH.
Yesterday, while I was watching Noah and Ezra hurl soccer balls at a tree in an attempt to retrieve a foam stomp rocket they'd launched into its branches, Ike decided to run into the street. I realized he had run out into the street because another mom from the neighborhood was there and was like, "Dude, Ike's in the street." We both bolted towards him, which was simply his cue to run faster.
I caught him and hauled him back to the curb and launched into my very best SAFETY/DANGEROUS speech. He observed me with the same bored, indifferent look he gives me when I'm shrieking at him from the driver's seat of the car to STOP UNBUCKLING YOUR CARSEAT OH MY GOD HOW DO YOU KNOW HOW TO DO THAT STAAAAHHHHPPP.
Then he wandered off to go collect some rocks. Two minutes later I was running after him again, arms flailing and flip-flops awkwardly flopping, as he frantically tried to stuff himself even further down a small, narrow drainage pipe.
(He used to do this thing where, if I caught him holding something he shouldn't have, he would immediately hurl it to the ground the second he saw me coming for it. NOW YOU CAN'T TAKE IT FROM ME HA HA FOILED. Considering the "something he shouldn't have" was typically 1) breakable, 2) expensive, or 3) filled with liquid, I learned that I needed to approach him slowly, stealthily, like a ninja. But it's hard to remember that lesson when faced with the sight of your child possibly about to Baby Jessica it into a hole in the ground.)
Oh, Ike. I am keeping my eyes on you. Just please try not to hurt yourself every time I need to blink.