Precious Little Villains

Children are precious little villains intent on stealing every private adult moment you dare. The bathroom is now a communal place. (The dog even comes in to see what all the fuss is about). Leisure reading is now out loud with an AA, BB, A, B, A, B rhyme scheme three minutes long before the hooligans bed time. Watching a tv show that doesn't have puppets, or animation or coy songs and people with perpetual sun-shine smiles during the thief's waking hours does not happen. Just try, try to sit and sip a cup of coffee quietly any time after 6:30 am and you risk a frustrated morning.

Of course, parents are complicate victims, myself included. Though, I've developed a semi-effective wicked evil eye, "Don't you
touch that!" And, counting to three with a two an half, three quarters , seven eighths, along the way, before it's "...three. That's it. Time out."

Though, that doesn't always work out so well because the second stair becomes a bully pulpit of screaming, a soap box of misery, a wailing wall of injustice and despair that makes me think, "Good God.  Maybe I should have just let him play with the butchers knife. Holly Fuck! Stop it all ready! You'll cut your finger off and really have something to cry about!"

Of course, I can't say that. Though once or twice something like that might have slipped. No, no. Instead, we have to crouch low, below his eye level so he doesn't feel intimidated, put on a consoling voice as though speaking to the bereaved disciple of savior murdered, and say.

"Now calm down. Calm down. Your two minutes are up.
Why are you in time out?"

And there's the blank look of total bewilderment and innocence, genuine tears and all. Or, there's the look of joyous, defiant hatred and irrational stubbornness inherited from I don't know who.

"Come on now. You were playing with a knife. We don't play with knives do we?" (Mote I'm speaking in plural now.)

Silence.

"No touching daddy's knives. Right?"

Silence.

"Come on. Look me in the eye." I say and bend myself around to put my face in front of his which is now looking anywhere but toward me. If the defiance is gone, or there is a true lack of memory of cause for the consequence, or, if he understands, I ask "Ok?"

Silence.

"Just say OK, ok?"

"Ok Daddy." He says and goes about his merry way plotting his next criminal endeavor of assassinating my privacy. Though, lately, his OK sometimes conveys a bemused exasperation and subtext of "Sure pal. I'll play your game because you are way bigger than me. But when you aren't looking I'm going right back over to that light socket and lick it."

This, of course, makes me snicker as I go back to whatever hallucination of un-interrupted adult activity I might be having at the moment such as changing a light bulb, polishing my shoes, eating a cookie before desert time. It doesn't matter. If he's awake, my little gangster is sure to steal the moment through direct engagement or putting his life at risk or some other child's antic.

Even so, all in all, I can say, as most parents will agree, I hope, Though he steals all my private adult moments,  he's my precious little villain and I would cut your throat or my own, if that's what it took to keep him safe.