(Photo courtesy of Photo Lush, the non-blogging sister)Everyone feels so sorry for the littlest gremlin since hearing of his impending dental surgery next month where they will extract his four top front teeth.
When they see him this week they get a look of pity in their eyes, as if he will be having his fingers pulled off with rusty pliers by some sadistic doctor. 'Poor Spawn,' they say, and get teary.
When friends and family call or email they ask how he is as if he has a prolonged illness - and unless you count sad-and-guilty-mother-itis among the baddies in the medical textbooks, he's quite healthy.
'How's poor little Spawnling?' they ask gently. 'Is he doing okay today?'
'He's so little and it's really unfair,' will remark a kind soul.
'Is there anything I can do?' they will ask hopefully.
There is something you can do, actually: duck and cover.
What people don't realize is that Spawnling is a little boy from my womb, and therefore made of the very finest demonic ingredients: Specifically, rabid puppies and dark matter with just a pinch of chaos for added spice.
Oh. And half teaspoon of cinnamon.
Don't let those sweet blue eyes fool you, for the child is a creature of the nether world.
And being such a creature, my little demon feeds off the sorrow and misery of others. There's always enough of it going around on a daily basis, but pump up the sympathetic volume with a few more tears on his behalf and he gains immense strength.
And you don't want to see him when he has that much evil inside of him. Nay, it is the thing legends are made of and it is truly frightening.
Don't look at me like that; I know what you're thinking. 'Maven, he's just a little boy with rotten teeth. How could you say such things?' You probably write me off as a horrible parent. You probably think I'm over-exaggerating or mentally unstable.
You'd be right on to something with the mental instability part, but I'm telling the truth: My boy is vicious lately. So vicious I have to follow him around whenever there are other kids, never sitting down, never letting down my guard. Any child regardless of age can be a victim of his scratching, biting, slapping or pushing. He attacks mercilessly and without warning:
Get in his bubble? Smack!
Take a toy? Whump!
Talk to him when he's busy breathing? Blammo!
Crawl around on the other side of the room innocently looking at the carpet? Ka-Pow!
It's stressful and exhausting, I'll have you know. My job is full time referee, always watching and waiting for the next foul play. I drink a lot of coffee. A lot.
Thursday appears to be when he's at his finest. Last week he pinched my friend's toddler's face, getting one claw inside his cheek and pulling enough to draw blood. Today, he not only smacked Pixie's four-year-old with a car and made his nose bleed, but he also did a drive-by smacking of another little boy for no apparent reason. Just because. He was paying it forward. Doing random acts of violence. Taking a chance. Being spontaneous. He also committed at least a dozen other infractions that I won't bring up for brevity. I'm like a sports anchor reporting only the highlights.
My arms and chest are covered in scratches and have been for weeks. It looks like I raise large birds for a living and fail to wear protective gear. I wish I could have a good reason like wild bird rehabilitation to excuse my mangled body because it would provide a more interesting and less embarrassing answer to 'What happened to your arms... and neck... and, um, cleavage?'
Yesterday was a 'taste of your own medicine' day. After a full agenda of gremlin taming I decided to take the dog out in the back for bladder relief while the children were playing together. Spawn is just starting to figure out cooperative play, so he's been enjoying action figure adventures with Gutsy. They were doing very well when I walked out the back door. Intrepid was supervising nearby.
Did I mention they were doing very well when I walked out the back door?
I was gone three minutes.
THREE MINUTES.
I came back in to the following scene:
Intrepid had jumped on the computer to check his email and was oblivious to what had just transpired. Gutsy was crying in the livingroom. Spawnling greeted me at the door screaming and, when he turned around, I saw his face was covered in blood.
Apparently Spawn and Guts had a little "incident", where they began to fight over adventuring techniques. Spawn then chased his older brother into the livingroom and raised the action figure to hit Guts with it. When he did so, he whacked himself with the toy's feet: once above the hairline and once below. The bump on the forehead split open and started bleeding. Head wounds bleed a lot, just so you know. It was a tiny cut, but it hurt and it was scary. Spawnling was screaming 'Mommy! There's red on my face and it's yucky and it huuuuurts!'
It will go down in Maven family history as The Rescue Hero Incident.
A little bit of karmic payback perhaps? Now not only is he the kid with rotten teeth, but also with a large scabby bump on his head. From a parenting perspective I'm looking less attentive by the minute.
I've heard cavities can cause a low level of discomfort in children that can make them extra crabby. I pray every day that this is Spawnling's problem and he will emerge from the dentist chair a changed child. A happier, more complacent little guy like he used to be. And until I see otherwise I will hold on to that pipe dream and tell myself it's not all aggressive personality. He's in pain. Poor Spawnling. Poor, poor Spawnling.
(It is that sympathy which makes the darkness grow in him. I had better wear a long sleeve turtleneck tomorrow.)