The Manimal

My husband doesn't often take care of our boys by himself. This past weekend, he had the pleasure of having both little monsters both Saturday and Sunday, as I had to work (yes, I had to work on Mother's Day...more later...not bitter).

Saturday was good. I didn't leave the house until 11 am, so he fed the boys lunch (which I had prepared) and put Sweet Baby Son down for a nap. Dad and Sweet Son #1 played video games for about an hour during said nap, then the three of them spent the afternoon playing outside, riding bikes, going to the park, all good father-son stuff.

The upside of all of this activity was that all three were pretty much wiped by the time bedtime rolled around, and when Mom returned from work, all that was left was to put the boys down and go to sleep.

Sunday was a bit different. First of all, I was gone from 6:45 am-5:30 pm. After I arrived at work, I realized that I had failed to do some very crucial things that would ensure at least some semblance of normalcy while I was gone. Surely, however, Dad could put clean clothes on the baby (Sweet Son #1 is old enough to dress weather-appropriate, if not fashion forward). Surely Dad could find something semi-nutritious to feed both boys for two meals.

Uhm. Well, not exactly.

In his defense, cereal was fine for breakfast. I'm not sure what they had for lunch, but Sweet Son #1 spent most of the day at a friend's house, so he clearly wasn't starving. Sweet Baby Son has a HUGE sweet tooth, unlike his big brother, and ate cookies and peaches for lunch. He still had the same shirt on that I dressed him in SATURDAY morning, but hey, in the grand scheme of things, it could've been much worse.

Dad had bigger fish to fry than food or clothing.

He had to deal with the Manimal.

This is Dad's new nickname for Sweet Baby Son.

My children are polar opposites. Where SS#1 was calm and could be reprimanded with a simple "No, that's not for SS#1.", SBS seems to take great joy in going where he's not supposed to be and doing what he's not supposed to do. He slams his hands against our big screen TV, then laughs and sits quickly so I can't smack his bottom. He is trouble, personified.

I have gotten used to this. From the time we get home, my dinner preparations are punctuated with "stay out of the pantry, leave the trash alone, don't throw that away, don't eat the dog's food, stay off the hearth, get down from there, get off the chair, etc.".

Dad hadn't experienced this prior to this past weekend.

We were talking Sunday evening when I got home, and he was lamenting his exhaustion about "dealing with the Manimal", as he put it. I had only one thing to say to him.

Welcome to my world.


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