It's a hard-knock life

Yesterday my 2 year old was being, well, completely 2. Being exactly as he should. Melting at my feet and sobbing while I cooked dinner. We have a rule in my house that if you are whining at a time that isn't terribly convenient for me to fix the issue at hand, you go whine in your room. Normally this rule leads to perfect children that come back out 5 minutes later and realize wow it's so much better to use words! and then four leaf clovers grow out of the grass in the back and a rainbow appears leaving a pot of gold and dancing leprechauns. Parenthood is so funny that way.

So Evan forgets the rule about whining when I am busy being his slave, I mean cooking him food so he has to be placed into his crib while he thinks about this rule we have. I shut the door while the siren cry explodes into levels of volume normally heard by an ambulence racing to save a dying person. Not normally from a short person that can't wait 5 more minutes for food.

I resume my task and feel pleasure in gaining control of the situation and enforcing rules. Remembering it's a teaching moment dulls the sting of screaming kids sometimes. But mostly it's the closed door to muffle the sound that works best.

The baby begins to stir, she's getting sick of the swing. Drat. Zane is bouncing off the walls. And couches. Is there ever an age they hit where it's no longer a witching hour?

I hear a door open. Then shut. Then open. Evan strolls into the kitchen. He climbed out of his crib. I have officially been schooled. Only, he's totally cool about it. Like it didn't just happen. Like after 24+ months of his life he didn't just pick up a new trick that has removed the only sure way for me to contain him regardless of his temperment. He just walked past me and went about playing with toys like it was an everyday thing. It was funny to me how nonchalant he was about the whole thing. We sit down for dinner.
I ask: "Evan did you jump out of your crib?"
He shrugs his shoulders as if to say "Yeah, whatever. It's no big deal. Can you pass the salad?"

Until this morning. He did it again. Usually he screams for me to get him in the morning. Not today. He just rolled into my bedroom and walked around like he wasn't a freaking superstar crib jumper. Didn't even make eye contact or give any indication that he just broke out of his crib on his own. Acted as if he wasn't a bad A mofo. I am willing to bet he does a handstand on the crib rail on his way out of it. Then does a smooth tuck and roll as he lands on the ground. Stands up with arms in the air, a perfect 10. Maybe even struts to the door, giving off much bravado. Rolls up a pack of cigs in his sleeve and gives a wink to his stuffed animals. Chews up some glass on his way down the hallway. He might as well skip riding a bike and get a hog. This kid is just a little bit too tough for me. It's the coolness about his tough exterior that makes him completely rock solid. Little Evan. Our crib jumping biker gang kid. He is so tough.

Oh. Except when he has a temper tantrum. And prances on his tip toes with his hands bend at the wrist in front of his chest like a kitten begging on its hind legs for more milk in its dish. That's sort of not so tough.