Little B has been growing restless in the morning of late. While Simone goes about her morning routine, the little guy wakes up slowly, plays with the panoply of stuffed animals in his castle-shaped bed and, eventually, gets bored.
Now Simone has strictly forbidden the little guy from doing two things:
(a) getting out of his bed; and
(b) opening the door to his room.
Now Simone is no stranger to the world or raising children. Although her method may seem cruel, her madness bears some explanation. In his room, the little guy is safe. Should he get up and wander about the house unsupervised, all manner of chaos could ensue. Including but not limited to both the little guy and the larger, though equally clueless about personal safety, German Shepherd getting out onto the very busy thoroughfare that runs in front of Simone's house.
Nonetheless, little B has a mind of his own and, on more than one occasion, Simone has heard the telltale sound of the door creaking open.
"Are you opening your bedroom door?" Simone says in a menacing voice.
Pitter patter back to the bed, followed by noisy scrambling as he struggles up the ladder to the battlement of his castle.
"You'd better not be opening your bedroom door," warns Simone for good measure, peeking and seeing that the little guy is hiding his face in his pillow, knowing he's been "bad".
The poor tike doesn't even dare answer his mother.
But when she came to rescue him from imprisonment, she found a row of figurines, normally stored on a shelf and so quite obviously having been moved from their proper home, lined up on little B's play table.
The wall of shame... Sssshhhhh! Don't tell Mom I moved you, okay?
Okay.
2 comments:
my grandson has been staying with U/us for the last 6 weeks. W/we fixed up the guest room to accommodate the 23 month old's particular lodging requirements and began the process of reliving the various pros and cons which eventually led to my vasectomy.
It took approximately two weeks for his comfort level to blossom to the point where he was ready to show off to Gramma & grampa his newly acquired skill. W/we call it 'stealth'. For him, this is akin to a super power. In his secret identity as a mild mannered toddler, he cannot move more than 3 feet in any direction without either a) banging headfirst into a wall, door, or large (usually metal) appliance, or b) screaming with air raid siren volume which trails off (much too slowly to my thinking) into a pitch that only dogs can hear. But, when he transforms into Stealth Baby (trumpets please), he can move silently over strewn toys laid as careful traps, out into the hallway, past O/our bedroom, through the kitchen and it's three major appliances, and head soundlessly into the basement wherein lie The Holy Grail of small boy toys,... (drum roll here) grampa's Tools!!!
Now, let me pause briefly here to explain that the only thing i like less than being called into action as the Defender of Domestic Security prior to my obligatory morning urinary ritual, is the visual confirmation of forgoing aforementioned ritual,... the dreaded Pup Tent PJs! Racing through the house to the tune of hard steel hitting cold cement while fighting back the persistent remnants of deep slumber dreams, and dreading the sound of cold steel hitting toddler flesh, with a full bladder and a bouncing boy-bat, is just not the kind of heart pounding, adrenaline pumping sensory overload i crave. The humiliation just does not have the desired edge to it. So what happens? BOOM! i run into the door! Then two feet later, BAM!! Right into the wall! (On a side note, i hate that even with the previously referenced pee pee pole in it's fully attentive state, i still hit my nose first!) On into the kitchen where i stub my toe on at least two of the three large metal appliances before half flying half falling down the basement stairs to the delighted welcome of Stealth Baby!!!, who has reverted to his secret identity as a mild mannered toddler with wrecking ball tendencies. He, of course runs full out in the opposite direction waving grampa's hammer (or pipe wrench, or brand new electric drill) high over his head to add motivation to this new game of catch-me-if-you-can.
This went on for another two weeks while i harbored under two grave misconceptions: 1) that he was capable of being taught not to leave his room in the mornings, and 2) i was capable of enforcing such stricture on a nearly two year old who was determined to bend all his will toward undermining grampa's misconception #1. This all came to a head when The Love of my Life (aka The Better Half, aka She Who Must Be Obeyed, aka She Who Wakes Not Happily After Working All Night) suggested (we authors call this literary license) that i find a better resolution. i put a lock on his door!
Now he wakes up, checks the door, plays for a few minutes, then begins whispering through the door, 'grampa!' i hear him when he checks the door,... i get to sneak into the bathroom and pee, Praise GAWD!!! He is happier, i am happier, and the wear and tear on my doors, walls, appliances, tools and especially my pajamas is greatly reduced. However, i caught him fashioning a set of lock picks out of some electrical parts he had extracted from his talking dump truck. More on this later!
- Ms Devi's grateful lil boy
See? Proof positive that little guys cannot be trusted to stay in their room or stay out of trouble if allowed to wander around, draped in their stealth baby identity.
Friends of mine had to do the same thing: lock their youngest son into his room, else he could be counted on to step out of the house for a few minutes in a blizzard, flood the bathroom (and basement) by filling up the tub and to drop tools and utensils down various vents.
Simone is very fortunate indeed that the voice of angry mom has proved sufficient to keep the little guy in his bed.
Stubbed toes and bruises incurred while scurrying around with a full bladder (and with the social restriction that screaming with air raid siren volume is unacceptable for adults) do not make for a good start of the day...
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