The thing about children is that each of them finds a new way to make trouble. Think you’ve got the forbidden snacking under control by virtue of putting all the food up high? Well guess what — the next toddler doesn’t care for snacking, he likes getting all the shoes out of your closet and clomping around the house in them. Finally got that closet door sealed tight? Big deal, because this one has a thing for getting hold of your phone and dialing up strangers in Singapore.
I write this upon recently discovering, with Wife, exactly where all the missing pens, notepads, forks, spoons, ornaments, books, toys, cups, and other sundry items have been disappearing these past few weeks. It’s not so much a discovery as a deduction, based on finding Isaiah’s entire castle playset — which is roughly a third of his body size — in the kitchen trash can.
Apparently, throwing things away gives this boy a sense of completion. I’m for keeping him in a closet until he’s five, but Wife says children, much like hydrangeas, need sunlight. So instead we’ll be ordering an expensive custom door for the alcove where our trash can resides. At which point this child will likely switch to putting my car keys in the toaster oven, or stuffing my socks in the toilet, or otherwise sabotaging the undisturbed tranquil bliss that was once my undisputed domain.
Because he is a child, and moreover a boy, and this is what they do. Not that I ever did anything like that. At least not that I can recall.