Thursday, January 01, 2004

Children are messed. Especially when they decide to throw spoons at you. I guess I was one of the lucky victims. Some of my relatives got calamari on them during dim sum hour (not to mention a few chopsticks). Don't get me wrong. My 2 year old cousin -- Lil' Performer -- is cuter than Japanese merchandise, sold in conjunction with pastel clouds and Lassie, but he sometimes has a temper seen only in men who've drank their 18th beer.



At home, he threw a rubber ball at my brother, who got all misty eyed from the engrossing pain. In reaction, Lil' Performer calmly got into his Fisher Price jalopy and tried to escape from the scene of the crime. We caught that thug when he backed up into the coffee table, two feet away. I immediately reprimanded him. He tried poking my chub, charming me with his hands, but I knew that slickster's plan. I knew it well. He tried to use the cute routine. Wore my hairband around his eyes like a little Groucho Marx while jumping like a crazed rabbit. Ooh, he was good. A little too good. I wanted to give him the ol' heave ho, but I slapped his ordure-stuffed-plastic-intimate-wearing derriere instead. The nightmare was over before it began and I was left hanging in the aftermath.

We made up and in a giddy frenzy, he poked my chub one last time. Bastard! Foiled me again!

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