Duck and Cover

Having a one year old is basically the same as having a natural disaster hit your home, on the daily. Like a really funny, cute, snuggly natural disaster… but a natural disaster, just the same.

How does one block out such huge phases of parenting? Was I hit with a blunt object at some point? On my noggin? Have I been secreting memory out of my mammaries? How else could I forget that one year olds are paper eating, floor food searching, knocking over creations of the bigger brothers, brozillas?

From cabinets, to baskets, to any sort of crumbling smooshed into the very corner of the kitchen floor, nothing is safe from the havoc-wreaking of Mr. Harrison. There have been three instances in which I have said, “what’s in your mouth, Har?” only to play search and rescue resulting in some sort of shiny currency in my hand {I feel like saying shiny currency sounds much more appropriate than my one year old has had three coins in his mouth}. I think he’s having an identity crisis and believes himself to be either a human parking meter or a bubble gum machine. Perhaps even a Roomba.

Everything from outlets to the speakers are assaulted daily by little Grabby McGruberhands. In fact, he peels off the speaker covers every single time I cover them… So I’ve basically given up that fight in favor of the illusion of sanity. Apparently, he’s all about the bass and wants those babies pumpin’ out sound the Say Anything way. And his brother’s art supplies, creations, Lego labors of love, and any sort of masterpieces are currently toast to this little rover.

Every waking hour, I feel as though I am playing 720 successive rounds of Minute to Win It. From attempting to shove the laundry in the wash before harr hoists himself inside, to getting to the bathroom door prior to him taking a swim in the toilet, I am pretty much racing the clock against our littlest lad with every move I make. And retrieving the silverware basket from the door of the dishwasher without him leaping on for a ride, well, my success rate is about 50/50. This kid is on my heels and the game is on, my friends.

The good news…

we have yet to have any major mishaps. Sure, a couple of cups of spilled water here and there, laundry baskets emptied of their contents, and of course, the retrieval of the shiny currency, but I haven’t yet found him licking the toilet or dancing on the coffee table. He’s shifty, but I am on high alert. He’s upping his game every day. But I’m scrappier than I might look. Just ask my 8th grade volleyball coach. So for now, I’m calling it Mommy – 1, Hurricane Harrison – 0.