You ask your dearest, “Hon, have you seen my phone?” When you get the casual “no” reply, you hunt around a bit or tear the place apart. Hm. It’ll turn up, you think. You must have left it on silent-mode somewhere odd and forgotten. When you do finally find it in the toy box, you tell yourself it’s no wonder. It has bright lights and makes bleepy sounds. Of course the baby would be fascinated by it.
Then you find some poorly-opened snack wrappers discarded on the kitchen floor. Okaaaay. Just hungry is all. Mental note taken, the little one’s appetite is growing. No biggie. But then you come home to discover crayon tagging on the living room walls, followed by a diaper change that remarkably reminds you of an episode of Cops, the one with the PCP perp that took eight officers to bring down, and you finish the evening off by running riot control on several crib jail-break attempts.
You don’t want to believe it. How could someone so little and cute and sweet be so callously destructive and defiant? Not wanting to admit the answer, you make excuses. About how keys tinkle so pleasantly, how fun it must be to draw on big open surfaces like walls and carpet, and how remote controls left out are just begging to be relocated into a toilet bowl.
Deep down, you know. But still you tell yourself that you’re being unfair and untrusting, possibly even paranoid. But too many things have happened too many times now. Crimes.
It’s true. You admit it. Your baby is a criminal.
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It won’t be useful to your life, that is if you consider laughter and joy useless.
The Entire Versus Series
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