One more thing: my son is an undefeated drunken boxing master
I know that being a master in the drunken boxing arts isn’t so much of a “personality trait” as it is a “warning” to the rest of the world to not come within arms-reach of mommy’s little killer. I keep forgetting to have his hands registered as lethal weapons with my local government.
I can never tell which angle the attack is going to descend from. He’ll be cuddling in my arms, curled in the fetal position, when suddenly he’s like TIGER STYLE and rips my glasses off of my face. Sometimes, he’s propped up in my husband’s lap playing with a Lego when out of nowhere he’s like HANNIBAL LECTAR ATTACK and clamps down on my husband’s supple arm flesh with his little Chucky teeth and takes a bite. Sometimes he gets all CRANE CLAW, and goes from innocently sucking milk from a bottle to cracking me in the face with said bottle. Most often, he’s trying to scale mommy’s legs while I’m standing at the stove trying to cook myself a meager breakfast of orphanage gruel when he’s suddenly like DONKEY PUNCH SURPRISE and takes me out at the knees.
You would think he’s giving us enough time to duck & cover from his assaults since he yells out the fighting style he’s about to throttle your ass with. Sadly, no. My reflexes have dulled with age, while his are razor sharp.
My train of thought when I’m hungry:
- Opens fridge.
- Scans its contents.
- Creates a menu in her mind for dinner, consisting of a protein and an appropriate side dish.
- Makes sure there is enough to feed herself, her husband and their son.
- Commences to cooking.
- Commences to serving her husband, her son and herself.
- Commences to eating.
- Commences to cleaning up while having an imaginary argument with her husband because he is not helping to clean.
My husband’s train of thought when he is hungry.
- Drops xbox controller to the floor and leaves the living room.
- Enters the kitchen, and scans his surroundings for the nearest edible item (probably a box of taco shells).
- Grasps box and tears into box from the side like a raccoon, not even bothering to open it properly like someone who isn’t a caveman.
- Stands there eating taco shells until he no longer feels the annoying pangs of hunger.
- Drops box where he stands
- Does an about-face and exits the kitchen.
- Re-enters living room and resumes playing with his xbox, never once having considered his pregnant wife’s or his son’s hunger (we might’ve wanted some raw taco shells for dinner, too.)
My son’s train of thought when he is hungry.
“I’m hungry.” (I don’t think this is literally what he says to himself, since he doesn’t entirely speak English yet.)
- Drops whatever household item he is destroying.
- Adorably waddles into the kitchen.
- Happens upon the box of taco shells earlier discarded by his father.
- Picks up where his father left off, finishing off the contents of the box like a smaller, cuter raccoon.