Izzy runs down the hall and I yell, "Izzy come back here." Nothing. Again I yell, "Izzy, get your butt back in here!" Nothing. I turn around and look down the hall and he is standing behind our bed smiling at me. "Can you hear mommy," I ask? "Yes," he says, vigorously shaking his head so. *sigh*
I go down the hall towards him and he starts screaming at me. "Arghhhh!" Over and over as I get closer. I round the end of the bed and I see he's holding one of the new pics I got at Ikea last week, holding it between his tummy and the bed. I take it from him, much as he anticipated, and we head back up the hall. I'm walking, dragging a 30 pound child behind me, because when he doesn't want to go somewhere he loses all muscle control.
We get back into the living room, and I tackle my magazine resorting job, and he starts playing with toys and watching cartoons. Of course, he shortly runs back down the hall. Then he comes back up the hall, holding the picture up against the wall at various points, looking every bit the midget interior designer.
My kid, the next Phillippe Starck.
Or Charles Manson.
He came over while I was typing this, and tried to tear apart the little weather thing and calculator on our awesome Michael Graves mousepad. "That's a no-no," I tell him. "Bad." He looks up at me, big blue eyes so intent, and says, "Bad, bad!"
"That's right," I say. "Bad, bad!"
He looks back at the TV and reaches up for my arm. He hugs my arm against him then slides his arm around mine to grasp my hand. My heart swells, and I pull his hand up to my face and I kiss it. "I love you, baby," I tell my precious firstborn. He reaches up for my hand then, pulls it to his face, and bites the hell out of it.
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