Me cleaning his face
Nacho wouldn't let him poke his eyes
He couldn't have the remote/my phone/the calculator/the box cutter
I made him get off the ladder
I don't know what "mees" means
I pulled him out of the dishwasher
I ate the cookie he placed in my mouth
I poured the milk too slowly
I still don't know what "mees" means
I wouldn't eat the cookie he put in my mouth
Nacho wouldn't let him poke his butthole
I didn't let him run into the ocean
I lifted him up off the floor of the restaurant/grocery store/sidewalk
Mees, woman! MEEEES!
When I asked his pediatrician about this behavior he said that the terrible two's are a misnomer, that acting out starts at 18 months, but I know better because I Googled "I think my son is on bath salts" and learned to "be on the look-out for small packets similar to those that contain moist towelettes." Wouldn't you know it, I found a stash of those in Ozzy's sock drawer. Shit just got real, yo.'
Lately I have been asking all the men that I encounter, what is up with you people? I mean, really. Bryan, my dad, the guys at my work...what is it with you and your need to throw rocks into puddles? Boy energy is no joke, the constant drive to move, run, jump, smack, dodge, laugh, chew, throw and to touch your penis. Pretty sure it's still there, mkay?
And then there is the way Ozzy kisses me, my little testosterone-addled climbing boo-yah of a boy. Let's not go into the image of him eating my face off, per se, though he is all open-mouthed and hot-breathed, the taste of puppy dog tails something wild and reckless and full of a love I have never, ever known.