Harmless... Right?
Those of you who
have kids know (and those of you that may should know) that when there is silence mixed with two little boys, more than likely, a good ole-fashioned
diaper-dusting is soon to follow. It is like the calm before the storm. Like the eye of the hurricane. That is the preface to this little
episode.
The boys were
having a grand ole time as usual this morning, playing in the cardboard bathtub
box my pop drug in the house and left last week for them – all the while ignoring their
toys like they were works of art in a museum. Well, they can only run through the box so
many times. There are, in fact, a limited number of scenarios that two
diaper-clad boys can imagine while chasing each other through a tub box. So, I
figured I would be a hero. I gave Jackman a big, black plastic spatula, and Brolin a matching big black plastic spoon.
And I
commanded the boys, saying, “Of the cardboard box you mayest freely beat:
But of the furniture
of the rest of the house, thou shalt not beat it: for in the moment that thou beatest
thereof thou shalt surely get a spanking.”
Jackman got it.
He grinned his signature grin, and led the charge. Brolin immediately picked up
on it, and they commenced to beating that box like a redheaded stepchild. I
peacefully returned to my now soggy Cheerios and the Hunting, Fishing, &
Guns section of the Mule Trader, confident that this latest enterprise would
satiate their appetite for destruction for at least an hour or so. But just as
I finished my mush, all was quiet…
In an instant,
my heart sank. I knew they were up to
something. Where was all the beating? Where was that noise that told me their exact location and what they were up to when my eyes weren’t fixed directly on
them? Was Jackman snapping the window blinds in half? Was Brolin climbing the
bookshelf? Had they already discovered the boyhood joys of fire? Do I dare even
walk in the direction of absolute silence?
The moment of
truth… the point of no return. As I rounded the corner I saw them, with the very
tools of destruction that I had given them, excavating a half-dead plant in the
hallway, and merrily heaping the soil into a large mound on the hardwood (anyone
remember those field trips to Moundville?). For just a split-second I was
conflicted. I didn’t know whether to be angry, or proud. I didn’t know whether
to chase them off, or take a picture. Then it occurred to me: “They ain’t gonna
shovel this mess up!”
I gave chase…
…and then I cleaned
up the mess.
They were already into
something else before I was finished, and never missed a lick. They ain't got time to slow down. Anyway, although it was somewhat
aggravating, this wasn't quite one of those “spank-able” offenses in their far-reaching spectrum of their punishable little-boy-crimes. So I just took’ em
upstairs to our bedroom and spent a few minutes teaching them how to perform
various forms of the powerbomb on the bed. They got to be the Hardy Boyz.
