I’m that fat blob cowering in the corner covered in blocks, banana, and bored err board books. . .
I might need a sniper armed with bubbles and possibly a cookie to get me out of this fucking corner of the kitchen!
Seems Huggy Bear has overnight mastered false imprisonment.
If you can get a clean shot with the bubbles, take it!
It happened rapidly. One day Mac’s this sweet little guy flopping around on his tummy playing with some blocks, maybe crawling a few feet here or there. . .
Then BAM! He’s lightning fast mobile and has a list of demands a mile long!
I can’t make a move or else he’s on me.
I’ve moved the coffee canister to the counter so I don’t have to fight with him about sucking K-Cups like a vampire. I let trash pile up on the counter for half the morning so I don’t have to open a cabinet door. I let the recycling accumulate at the bottom of the basement stairs all day long so I don’t have to open the back door since he’s very fond of pounding on the glass storm door and beating the door knob into the 100-year-old plaster walls.
There are baby gates every which way I turn. Since the budding sociopath genius has figured out how to bust through a few of them, I have chairs in front of them for added security. Yet, he’s strong enough to slide a chair. So I wait for the last possible minute to use the bathroom. I pitch dirty diapers to the bottom of the stairs. I floss my teeth in the kitchen just to keep him contained.
I drink water, iced tea, and sometimes gin, at room temperature because we fight about closing the freezer door. The oven? Forget it. I don’t even dare tempt him with an open hot oven door.
I try ever so quietly to open a bag of snacks, a door, a baby gate, remove my shoes and POW! He’s all up on me.
He’s holding me hostage in my kitchen and living room! I can’t read a magazine lest he shred it to bits. I can no longer wear flip-flops or go barefoot because he comes zipping towards me at breakneck pace in his little toe squashing, joy-sucking dump truck pedicure death machine.
He digs his elbow into my sternum. He punches me in the throat. He suctions his mouth to the dishwasher. He pulls on my skirts and chews on my shirts. He demands I share his vile partially masticated banana and spit-soggy Cheerios every morning. He laughs and laughs and snorts sadistically at me. He sees every weakness as an opportunity and exploits it!
I’m being held hostage by an 11-month old!!!
You know how on TV sometimes the hostage starts to identify with or understand or sympathize with their captor?
I try. Oh how I try!
We negotiate. We speak in fun terms about “helping Mommy shut the freezer door.” We say please and thank you. We try distracting the little scoff-law in an attempt to appease him. . .
But sometimes to no avail. . .There’s protest. . .and tears.
If you have a clean shot with the bubbles, take it!!!!!!!
Or just leave some pizza, ice, and gin by the back door. . .
Oh wait. . .
I can’t open the gawddamned back door. . .
At least not until nap time!