Hurling things, I’ve been told, is of a far greater magnitude than merely throwing things. With that in mind, like it or not I would probably say that Alex is a hurler.
Sweet Ben, my poor sweet firstborn can barely throw a ball–just like his mother!–and will probably never opt to “throw the ole pigskin around” for fun. Because shit, that doesn’t sound like a whole ton of fun to me. The only ball sports I participate in are the sorts that happen in the horizontal position, if you know what I mean.
But Alex, in his demonic toddler glory has decided that EVERYTHING is for whipping around. I have narrowly dodged such implements of doom as a remote control, a large truck, several hardback books, and possibly even a cat or two. He’s bound and determined that pretty much anything and everything is hurl-worthy.
This has effectively turned him into a Toddler Weapon of Mass Destruction, especially when you factor in the teeth. Oh, the teeth. Why yes, I have seemed to somehow raise a biter AS WELL as a hurler. It’s obvious that I’m doing a fantastic job as a parent.
See, I never understood the Biting Kids. I always assumed that they had some terrible home life or something in which they learned from their parents that Biting Was The Way To Solve Problems? Maybe Mom and Dad settled disputes by the gnashing of teeth at each other’s throats or something. Regardless, I never figured that any child of mine would be a Biter (commence Universe laughing at me hysterically).
I have 2 bruises that now say otherwise.
(Segue Time! So, apparently I’d forgotten how as a child *I* handled frustration until I was writing this post. Then it struck me across the face that the reason I’d lost my front baby teeth was because I had become so enraged by some pillows I was trying to make a fort with that I bit them angrily. Guess my kid is really my clone).
And assuming that this new baby does indeed come this winter, I may have to invest in Baby’s First Crash Suit, just so it makes it through the first year.
Oh yes, yes I am indeed fucked.