So this morning Caleb was trying to get in the baby swing. Again. If I’ve told that child once, I’ve told him a hundred times, “Don’t get in the baby swing, Honey; you’re too big and you’ll break it…”
Well, you guessed it. He broke it.
I have two boys; I should probably get used to it. The other day he somehow managed to not exactly break my kitchen trashcan, but it is definitely permanently altered. Now when you depress the pedal with your foot, the lid goes up with an ear-piercing metal-on-metal squeal, gets stuck, and then you have to manually close it, when emits yet another calming melody. Five hundred times a day.
So anyway, the baby swing. I’m in the kitchen and I hear the tray of the baby swing, with its rattle toys, hit the floor. I go in the living room and there’s Caleb with the cutest two year-old look of guilt on his face. He looks at me with those big, dark eyes with their long lashes—it’s a look of equal parts fear and “Oh hiiiii, Mommy! Look how cute I am!”
“Oh, Buddy…” I say.
Then he drops his head, slumps his shoulders, and as his arms fall limp by his sides, he says, “Oh, f--- it.”
Niiiice. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I think I’ll go wash my mouth out with soap and watch about 4,000 episodes of Leave It to Beaver.
Well, you guessed it. He broke it.
I have two boys; I should probably get used to it. The other day he somehow managed to not exactly break my kitchen trashcan, but it is definitely permanently altered. Now when you depress the pedal with your foot, the lid goes up with an ear-piercing metal-on-metal squeal, gets stuck, and then you have to manually close it, when emits yet another calming melody. Five hundred times a day.
So anyway, the baby swing. I’m in the kitchen and I hear the tray of the baby swing, with its rattle toys, hit the floor. I go in the living room and there’s Caleb with the cutest two year-old look of guilt on his face. He looks at me with those big, dark eyes with their long lashes—it’s a look of equal parts fear and “Oh hiiiii, Mommy! Look how cute I am!”
“Oh, Buddy…” I say.
Then he drops his head, slumps his shoulders, and as his arms fall limp by his sides, he says, “Oh, f--- it.”
Niiiice. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I think I’ll go wash my mouth out with soap and watch about 4,000 episodes of Leave It to Beaver.
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