I’ll Be Starting a Savings Account for his Future Bail . . .

At some unknown point this evening, my littlest boy (now two years, four months, and two weeks old, give or take a day) got hold of four brightly colored crayons and scrawled a lovely picture directly onto the nice blank canvas of the arm of the beige couch.  *I clearly bought the beige, unpatterned couch before having the children.*  How he managed this when we were all in the room the whole time, I cannot fathom.  I blame the distraction of making dinner/the football game.

The Professor and I were sitting on the canvas/couch, and Jack got up to go to the kitchen. He stopped next to the couch and, eyes wide, said – Uh oh.  We ascertained the damage, and then, as one, our heads slowly turned to the two-year old.

I went over to him and asked “Liam, did you do this?”  I wasn’t furious – luckily this couch is crappy anyway, and we just recently ordered a new one (patterned! dark!) – but I was being firm, lest he attempt similar artistry on the new couch, at which point STEPS WILL BE TAKEN that he will not enjoy.  He fell melodramatically to the floor, so I grabbed his hand and dragged him up to stand – something I do multiple times daily, seeing as Limp Noodle Body is often how Liam expresses his feelings – and he looked at me with hooded, miserable eyes, and suddenly clutched his hand and wept.  “What’s wrong?” I asked.  “Hurts,” he said.  “What hurts?”  He wouldn’t answer.  Tears leaked out of his eyes.  I compared his limbs – nothing untoward, I had not inadvertently yanked anything out of socket.  I began gingerly and systematically touching points along his arm, testing for the damaged spot.  “Does it hurt here?  Here?  Is it your wrist?  Your fingers?”  He didn’t answer, just sat on my lap and tucked his head under my chin and clutched his right wrist in his left hand.  Jack, concerned, went off and fetched a Kleenex to wipe his drippy nose, then asked what’s wrong.  The Professor checked in, even the dog looked concerned.

I lifted my little soldier to the couch and sat him in my lap, where he continued to gently weep and hold that wrist.  I began to mentally calculate the cost of a late Saturday night ER visit.  And then Jack, still being solicitous of his little brother’s needs, handed him a toy.  Liam forgot himself, beamed, and took the toy in both hands, then hopped down to play, perfectly fine.

HE WAS FAKING IT.  Faking it, to get out of trouble.  EFFING FAKING IT.  Two years old.

Devious little sh**.