The little helper I've always wanted.

There is something truly wonderful about an 18 month old. It really is a remarkable age. Every day, Henry is learning something new, saying something new...

Nearly every day I can see the little light bulbs turning on inside his head as he discovers how things work, how things feel, how things taste, what happens to things when you drop them in the toilet...

Ahh, the wonder.

So don't take my complaining the wrong way. I love the age. I love the boy.

And now I vent.

Do you really, Henry, have to come running every single time I open the dishwasher? Must you fill it with crayons, or try to climb in, or pull the dirty dishes out when I'm trying to put them in, or put the clean dishes back in when I'm trying to take them out? What is it about the sound of the door opening that calls you like a kitten to warm milk?! I know you think the door is strong enough to support you while you stand on it, jumping up and down and laughing, but really... I don't think dishwashers are actually made for that.

And about yesterday. I know you were just trying to help when I was cleaning the bathroom... that you think we only keep that roll of paper there so that we can flush it down the potty... even if we haven't used it. But really, the ten thousand strips of toilet paper that you threw in with amazingly impressive efficiency all in the thirty seconds that it took me to actually clean the toilet all got stuck to the toilet brush, which just made everything disgusting. Really, what is with your toilet fascination?! Do you know how gross it really is? Have you seen how terribly inaccurate your brothers are? How about you just leave it alone all together...

What? It isn't going to happen?

I suppose that IS asking too much.

How about we make a deal? You leave the toilet alone and you can keep throwing all the folded laundry on the floor. I'll even let you pull all the printer paper out of the drawer so that you can step on and crumble up never used, but suddenly not usable paper one more time...

Oh, you already did that today? And yesterday? Huh.

Okay... just one more thing. When I'm cooking, and you come and insert yourself between me and the stove and push on my knee caps, while grunting... it does not actually make me want to pick you up. At all. Not even a little bit. It will perhaps, make me run screaming from the room with a towel over my head, begging the universe to take my children back to the funny farm.

What was that? You want to earn back my affection with a hug and a kiss and then go play in the potty again? Ah well, okay then.

Just leave the toothbrushes alone this time, okay?