There was a time when it was Daddy against Mommy. Mommy would lay down the rules and Daddy would politely wait approximately 30-seconds and then break them.
Bedtime is quiet time? Not a chance. No spitting at the table? Pfffffbbbbbbbblt.
I was completely secure in my belief that the mischief was good for Finn and that he would understand when it was time to reel it back in, on account of the fact that he's a genius and all.
I am no longer secure in this belief. There's a storm a-brewing on the horizon and that storm's name is Typhoon Two. Boundaries are not just being tested, they're being unceremoniously pushed out of a moving vehicle. It is not uncommon for dinner now to end with me lifting Finn out of his chair, brushing off whatever delicacy he's decided to spit all over himself and depositing him in the corner, where he will continue to cry about the fact that his milk is no longer warm and the bread/cheese is not artisinal enough.
This is a shame, because we had just started getting into foods other than crayons.
So far we've still been lucky enough to avoid any major public spectacles, but extracting him from the toy car display at Rite Aid takes about 5 minutes longer every time. Eventually, it's all going to go sideways.
And so it was with such a potential hanging in the air that we ditched the Ninja with Aunt Holly & Uncle Rob last weekend to head for Whistler. Our hope was that we would be in another country when the explosion finally occurred. Upon our return, not only had the explosion not happened, but Finn cried when Holly left.
This is unacceptable. Finn has never cried when Kitty or I have left. Just so I don't develop a complex over this, I'm going to have to start pinching him before I walk out the door. Especially if he doesn't stop spitting his dinner all over the place.