9:01 a.m. - 2012-03-14
I think I actually woke up sometime after my feet hit the floor. Sure enough, my 2-1/2-year-old son is in the playroom, sitting in the middle of the rug that has little roads and road signs for him to drive his matchbox cars on, with a jar of peanut butter, a container of yogurt, and a steak knife, which he is using to eat the peanut butter like it's a spoon.
Yep, crack of dawn and the kid is already raising hell. Climbs out of his crib, goes downstairs, pushes a chair up to the counter, climbs on the counter and then climbs UP THE SHELVES like a monkey to get the peanut butter off the top shelf of my kitchen cabinets. And a steak knife, out of the knife block over the stove.
Then he raids the refridgerator and takes the whole loot back upstairs to the playroom, apparently so he could do what his mean mommy never lets him do: play with trucks while eating breakfast.
Luckily for Cashy's cute little fingers and big brown eyes, mommy is a vegetarian who has no use for sharp steak knives. In fact, I got rid of all my truly sharp knives about the time I disconnected the front two burners of my stove -- when Cashy was about 10 months old -- and the knife he got his hands on this morning is barely sharp enough to cut butter.
Luckily. But I have a feeling that parenting that child is going to be a hair-raising experience for a very long time.