Yes, to complete that sentance, it should end with “Ribs”.  But I don’t want ribs (uck:  thooey:  red meat phooey).  I just want my baby back.  The one with the dimples and the smiles and the sweet disposition.

And whatever model I currently have, I’m ready to send back to the manufacturers.  I want to downgrade!  I don’t want to be on the 3G network!

Right now he’s screaching in his crib.  Because he does not nap.  But he does wake up profoundly early so that when I’m trying to work out and have Me Time (I hear I’m entitled to that, but methinks I was misinformed), he gets to shove his learning table over to right.behind.me for me to trip on.  And for his brother to start laughing and then telling me stories, because he’s awake as well due to someone’s morning vocalizations.  I never knew just how irritated I could be when someone’s trying to talk to me at 6:25 while I’m walking away my pounds and trying to believe Lady Gaga & the Eurythmics who are telling me through my ear buds that everything will be okay if I just dance.

Abe screaches at me. Different from JJ, who just yelled at the world:  Oh, The Injustice of It All!  I must fling myself all about the room!  Abe is very deliberate:  Oh, The Injustice of You!  I must fling myself!  At YOU!  Over!  And Over!

Note:  he knows how to use childlocks.  As evidenced by my glasses lying on the bathroom floor.  Twisted so that one of the ear piece holdy things (can you tell I haven’t slept much? and have been yelled at a lot?) is now perpedicular.  True, they were some seven years old, and had lost a screw so they were held together by dental floss (three times stronger than regular string), but still, I would prefer to be the one to go Office Space on my eyewear.

And yet, he charms everyone in public.  Flirting.  Flashing the dimples.  Pretending to be shy.  Playing hide and seek.  He jumped into the arms of a friend while we were at the library, laid his head on her shoulder, and she had to walk us to the car because he wouldn’t let her put him down.  We are stopped Every.Time. at the store by someone exclaiming how cute he is.  And he looks at me.  And I look at him.  We both know the truth:  one shriek away from a box to Abu Dhabi.

So for right now I’m treating him as any person treats a Bad Cat (no, Aunt Faye, not by shaking my finger and saying, “Bad Cat” in a “firm” tone which leads the kittens to snicker or stare with the You Stupid Human Stare of Scorn).  Two words.

Squirt.

Bottle.

Or as JJ says, “Hey, Mama, why you have a gun?”

Daily Drivel, Little A Adventures, Mama Musings