The other night I held Isaac, our youngest, in my arms. He cooed “Daddy” and stroked my cheeks with his hands, an angelic smile on his lips. Then he stretched his arms back as far as he could and brought his sweaty little palms crashing into my ears. He followed this by maintaining a grip on my ears and pulling them like they are taffy, with the emphasis on the word “like,” because they most assuredly are not made of taffy, though I fear they are a bit larger now. In short, the boy treated me exactly the way you want to handle a large assailant who has you in a bear hug. As I’ve explained elsewhere, the boy seems to have an innate talent for inflicting injury.
And then, as my howl reverberated through the kitchen, he went back to the sweet loving. This child is going to be trouble.