true story

It is a common misconception that my child is nearly perfect. To his credit, he is a remarkably happy, cheerful, even-tempered little boy. But today was proof that beneath that sweet, cherubic exterior lurks a pint-sized tyrant.

Today began with Eli crying for an hour straight in the car, while riding home from taking Ben to work. After a nap and lunch, I decided, much against my better judgment, to take him for a long overdue haircut. After two perfectly peaceful minutes in the airplane chair, he, without warning or provocation, began one of the most impressive meltdowns I've ever witnessed. The poor hairdresser did her best to snip while I pinned him down in my lap and he wailed at the top of his lungs. Mortified and desperate to get out of there as quickly as possible, I paid for the semi-retarded haircut and tried to get him into his coat and away from the train table. As he began to throw himself to the floor in protest, I scooped him up as deftly as my very pregnant body would allow and held him down in my lap while I forced his little arms into the coat, all the while trying to speak in my very best "Mommy is secretly fuming but doesn't want to alarm these strangers to the possibility of child abuse" voice. As I struggled, an older woman who was sitting on the other couch - and seriously, why the hell was she even there? - ever so helpfully said, "Oh, the poor dear. Did he even get to play with the train?" I gave her my best "Are you f-ing kidding me right now?" look and through clenched teeth replied, "No, we really don't have time for that right now." Meaning, "Clearly this demon child has used up every last ounce of my patience and I am going to completely lose it if we don't leave this instant, so mind your own damn business." Not taking the hint, she said, "Oh, but that's the only good part about getting a haircut!" I shot her a "I will kill you with my bare hands if you don't shut the hell up woman" look and hightailed it out of there.

As Eli wailed on in the backseat, I decided to cut my errand running short and head straight home. I manuevered him inside and set him free to play, then stepped outside to take the dog out and take a few deep breaths in the fresh air. As I prayed, "Lord, please give me an extra measure of peace and patience today," I heard the door shut behind me and an unmistakable "click" of the deadbolt. No. Surely, my son would not choose this moment to learn how to lock the door. With me on the wrong side of it. With a nervous chuckle, I warily stepped toward the door and tried the knob. Holy crap. My child has locked me out of the house. I hurried around to the front of the house and tried the front door, the car, and the garage, knowing full well that they were all securely locked. I returned to the back door to negotiate with my toddler. With tears of frustration spilling down my cheeks I knocked on the door. "Eli? Eli, honey, can you please undo the thing you just did?" I called through the door. I rattled the door harder. "Elijah Daniel. Turn the lock back. Turn it back now." Nothing. Trying not to panic, I remembered that a friend and her husband had broken into my house a few months ago through the front window in order to retrieve something when we were out of town (with full permission - not to rat you out, D). Flooded with relief, I managed to pry the screen loose (with minor damage) and push the window open enough to reach around and unlock the front door from the inside. I marched into the living room to find my son contentedly playing with his truck. I hauled him off to bed with a reminder to never, EVER touch anything in this house again, called my husband to report his malfeasance, and wished that I could have a very large, very stiff drink. Thank goodness we are going to the grandparents tomorrow.