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"Lukan" the Barbarian

November 5, 2009

In the last ONE day alone, my four-year-old precious (as I say that through clenched teeth) son Lukas (but let’s called him LUKAN as in CONAN–get it?) has destroyed, in no particular order: my whisk (cuz I DO cook me some mean scrambled eggs); my cool as you please big ole silver hoop earrings that I searched long and hard for (and finally found at Urban Outfitters–cheap!)–and I loved them because they were light as air–and now they are misshapen forks; and my beloved big, round kitchen clock in the perfect java browns with roman numerals. It was waiting to be hung in just the right place in our new home that we just hadn’t quite discovered yet–so Lukas decided to twist the hands of the clock into noodles for me–soooo nice of him, wasn’t it?

It all seems funny and cute and mischievous as I write this…but in reality it’s frustrating and a bit disheartening that he defies me at every step. He knew he had crossed the line with the clock–I’m a clock kind of girl, and he knew I loved that clock. When I found it under the coffee table (go ahead, you can laugh), I didn’t yell–I’m not really much of a yeller. I just got very quiet. I told the little guy that I was very disappointed that he would touch the clock without permission; that he would ruin mama’s favorite clock made me very sad. He wanted me to tell him it was okay; I wouldn’t. He wanted hugs and kisses; as hard as it was, as much as my heart wanted me to hold that pleading, precious (no teeth clenched this time) body close to me, I walked away.

Then, heartbreakingly, Lukas tried his best to fix it. Tongue clenched between teeth, he worked on that mangled clock, until he proclaimed in triumph “Look mama! All better!” which of course, it wasn’t. But I relented at his efforts. I gave him that hug, those kisses. Because yes, I realize all those things were just that–things. And he’s my boy, my little guy, my flesh and blood, my heart. He’s worth all that frustration, the bald spot from tearing my hair out, the middle of the night wake-ups–all worth it, no doubt; he’s just lucky he’s so damn cute. Even if he wipes my kisses off his soft, chewable cheeks, I don’t care. I’m gonna kiss em anyway–even though he hates it, I don’t care. It’s the least he can do.

He owes me. Big time.

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