Learning to walk opened a new world to the Little One. A world of terror for her older sister. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I was lulled into a false sense of confidence in my parenting skills by my easy-going first born. The Little One is the polar opposite of her sister in ways good and not-so-good. Let's visit a couple of her more disturbing moments...
Allow me to take you, reader, on a little journey into the past. It is 1999. Visualize, if you will, a peaceful toddler, lovingly placing blocks atop one another, building a lovely plastic tower of primary colors. She hums as she builds, occasionally interrupting her toddler song to seek the approval of her adoring parents.
Enter the Little One, clad in leather walking shoes, stalking with purpose directly toward the tower, an evil gleam in her eye. Unbeknownst to the toddler builder, the Little One comes closer, closer, until *WHAM!*, one leather clad foot strikes the tower low, to assure maximum destruction, followed by the other foot, both hands, arms, head, and belly. The tower lies in a heap of plastic rubble. The builder mourns the loss, tears falling, shoulders shaking, chest heaving. The Little One, now nicknamed Madzilla, shrieks with laughter. Adoring Parents look on in horror.
Fast forward to 2000. The Not-So-Little One has rescued a ladybug from the birdbath. She lovingly takes the little red and black backstroker to warm on the concrete of the driveway in the morning sun, watching closely for signs of recovery. She announces to Adoring Parents that the ladybug is still alive. Adoring Parents smile in approval of their nurturing prodigy.
Along comes the Little One armed with a big stick. (No, we don't ordinarily allow toddlers to play with big sticks.) She walks directly toward the infirmary, makes one hasty assessment of the red and black sunbather, and stabs it with the stick with the speed and accuracy of a Hellenistic warrior. Shrieks ensue - this time the Not-So-Little One's wails are matched decibel for decibel by the shouts of Adoring Parents. The Little One wanders away, unabashed and unashamed of her behavior, mumbling something about an icky bug...
As the Not-So-Little One's sobs subside, she bends close to the patient and pronounces that she is "not all dead." Adoring Parents kneel beside her and view the dubious condition of the now legless and partially flattened insect. They are astounded and touched by the optimism of the budding Albert Schweitzer. No one notices the return of Madzilla. She hurries back to the scene of the crime and quickly, before anyone can stop her, stomps and grinds the doomed ladybug into the concrete, finishing her off for good. Adoring Parents are too shocked to respond, the Not-So-Little One falls face down onto the ground in inconsolable sobs, whimpering her sister's name over and over. Madzilla mutters something about a 'sgusting bug as she waddles off. Adoring Parents stammer and sputter words like "serial killer" and "sociopath" and "psychotherapy"...
At what point exactly should parents be concerned about the sadistic tendencies of their spawn?
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1 comment:
mine was the kid at 18 months who would shriek if another kid came close. i'd take him to a playground & any kid who got near him was cause for a meltdown. i thought for sure he'd turn into an axe murderer.
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