Max has figured out how to get into the cabinet under the kitchen sink. You know the one, the cabinet that houses all the grimy sponges and rejected vases that don’t fit into my designated “GLASSWARES” cabinet, the plastic bowl and scrubber brush with brown stains of mysterious origins. Its the cabinet with the cleansers, the spray bottles, the scrapers, the old toothbrushes and the dishwasher detergent. It is a cabinet filled with yucky things, cleany things, things I toss and forget about and quickly wash my hands. There are things in there that I haven’t seen in months. It is a cabinet I only venture into when I misplace my stoneware scraper or when I clog up the garbage disposal with potato skins again.
Which is to say, it is not a cabinet you would want to go rummaging around in.
So why does Max pick that cabinet to disable the child safety lock? WHY!?!
He is such a different kid from his sister. He is all smiles and hellos to strangers and dipping his hands in the toilet when he sneaks in that split second between me flushing and closing the lid. He is an explorer, into everything, climbing and roaming and investigating and sticking his fingers into avocados so he can squeeze out the insides. Meanwhile, Norah is made out sideways glances and eye rolls, refusing even to look at people she doesn’t know. She has a healthy love of messes, but follows each mess with a thorough hand washing (even though she seems allergic to cleaning the messes she makes on the rest of her body. Or the floor, for that matter.) She wouldn’t be caught dead playing in the toilet at her advanced age of three, and looks on with disdain while her monkey brother makes his own guacamole in the cart at WalMart, squishing avocados and deftly eating his discoveries. She insists I take her out of the cart because “Mom. He is gross.” She was never into destroying safety devices, choosing to dismantle the things I stupidly leave out rather than busting through the child lock to get to the prizes under the sink.
Max likes to hang out with old toothbrushes and mysteriously stained scrub brushes. Norah likes to paint her fingers nails (and her fingers and her toes and the walls and the floor and maybe her butt cheeks too) with overlooked nail polish. They are their own crazy little messy people.
And so you know what this means for me? Basically my life is over.
Because on the one hand I have Norah who has learned that when I am sleeping and tell her “Ok, I will wake up in 5 minutes” that I am lying to her and plan to sleep as long as I can so instead of leaving me alone she sits on my arms and yells in my face until I zombie roll myself out of bed. I have Norah, queen of the eye roll, continually and creepily repeating what I say to her (Um, seriously Mom? You are making me crazy) in a voice that sounds exactly like mine and immune to any mess she creates, no matter how enormous, as long as she can wash her hands afterward.
And on the other hand I have Max, destroyer of plastic locks, man who chews through banana peels and uses the cat as a pillow. Max, the toilet dabbler, the poop smearer, the one who is learning his body parts and insists that “poo-poo!” comes out of his penis, and who will probably tell you that even if he doesn’t know you. Max, the disarmingly cute and cheerful and cherubic little lunatic who screams MOMMEEEEEEEEEEE! at random intervals throughout the day for no apparent reason.
*sigh* This is my life right now. So if you can’t find me, don’t hear from me for weeks on end, please send help. Since my kids are conspiring against me it is likely that you will find me underneath the sink, wrapped up in one of Norah’s “cowgirl ropes”, with nail polish all over my body.