My dad used to say I could tear up an anvil. It took me years before I knew what an anvil really was, and when I finally did, I didn’t really see the humor in his comment. But now that I have a child who seems to be following in my footsteps, I understand his statement completely.
For Brisco, it started with small things, like breaking toys and tearing pages in books. We never really had that problem with Cooper. He was more into trying to eat everything he touched. But Brisco just wants to break it.
He reminds me of the timeless character who makes random appearances in all the old comedies. The one who, wherever he goes, always seems to find a row of parked motorcycles and someway, somehow causes them to collapse like dominoes. That is our child.
Brisco will randomly select and destroy anything that looks like it has the mark of organization. Whether it is Cooper’s train tracks or a row of strangers’ lawn chairs at a ballgame, he seems to be pre-programmed for devastation.
He’s learned the phrase, “I didn’t mean to,” which at first was somewhat effective; however, since eye-witnessing him tearing out every flap in a 20 page flip book, I’ve learned that what he really means is “I didn’t mean to get caught.”
He even tries to demolish things that can’t possibly be destroyed. One night, he spent 20 minutes trying to turn over the metal trash cans at the ball park.
I feel like old mother haggard when he decides to go “destructo” because he doesn’t respond to lighthearted commands. I can’t tease or smile or say, “Sweetie, will you please…” He simply takes that as a dare. I have to use my meanest, mommy-scowl, find a really grouchy voice, and threaten (or deliver) a hard spanking to get his attention. And he always responds with a huge, toothy smile and an, “OK, Mommy. I’m sorry,” as he puts his hands over his backside to protect my target area, which, if I remember correctly, is terribly ineffective.
And nothing to this boy is sacred. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times that the laundry is off limits. But it never fails. If I turn my back even for a moment on a stack of freshly washed and folded clothes, it will end up in a ball at the foot of the couch.
He’s not the kind of kid to whom one can say, “Look, but don’t touch.” Those words may as well be spoken in Spanish if something that “estupido” is to be directed at him. For to his ears, it is as if I have said, “Come, little boy, take this hand blown piece of crystal brought back hundreds of miles from Czechoslovakia and shatter it into a million pieces.”
He is very adamant about attempting to right his wrongs. He’ll insist that he can “fix it myself” after his destruction has occurred; however, he has not quite learned that after receiving a blow from Brisco, not everything can be repaired.
I’m hoping as he grows up, he’ll grow out of some of these awkward tendencies. But I’m afraid I may have more luck wishing on stars or sprinkling pixie dust around his pillow at night and expecting him to turn into a 25 pound piece of chocolate. He’ll never be that kind of sweet.
As history sometimes does, I’m sure we will repeat the many broken toys, broken windows and broken bones of our youth through this little boy of ours. I don’t know if our patience or our pocket book can handle his devastation, but I’m not sure we have any alternative but to cross our fingers and tread lightly in his wake. I may start shopping around for an anvil of our own, just so we have something to work on in our spare time.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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