Sam has arrived into toddle-dom with an ear-piercing, repetitive shriek. As I write this he's unwrapping parchment paper. He’s walking, talking, climbing, head-butting, running and he’s weaned. He ain’t a baby anymore.
My father, who never lectures me, did lecture me about allowing Sam to bust up the joint. Sam will empty the kitchen cupboards, jettison the bottles of specialty cooking oil, pitch eggs out of the refrigerator, and leap for the stove knobs. He's well supervised and we are baby proofed but my father fears that in my attempt to grab him before he crawls into the oven, I'll slide on a baking sheet and end up yolk soaked. My father envisions Dave, Sam, and my life as a Three Stooges short.
Dave bought a gate for the back of the kitchen so while I’m at my housewife station, Sam can be in the kitchen with me without fear of pratfalls.
The first few times behind the gate, I distinctly heard Sam chant, “Att-i-ca, Att-i-ca.” He then launched his toys over the gate. A pretzel finely soothed him. He’s full bore toddler.
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