My Own Mini Terrorist

I was very lucky to have my daughter first. Because, Lord help me if I would have had my son first. I may not have made it to kid number two had that happened.

My son is a handful. More like a thousand handfuls, to be precise. You think I am exaggerating, right? Well I can assure you that I am not. It recently seems that my son's sole purpose in life is to keep me on my toes and busy. He's a climbing, biting, couch destroying, cabinet door opening, computer turning off, death defying machine.

Some time around his one year birthday, he fell and hit the leg of a rocking chair, resulting in a trip to the ER and a stitch in his eyebrow.

When he was 14 months old, he opened the oven door one night after dinner was over and badly burnt both of his hands. He still has pretty bad scars from that, which are treated at least twice a day with an ointment. I've prepared myself for the fact that he may have to have surgery later to take the scar tissue off his palms.

At around a year and a half old, he climbed out of his crib. I walked into his room where he was supposed to be in his crib and his sister was supposed to be playing, and found him playing and her in his crib. How in the world did that happen!? So now he has a tent over the top of his crib - perfectly designed to cage the animal within. Except it has to be zipped entirely or he can open it and climb out.

And just last weekend, he fell down 5-6 wooden stairs - with not a bump or scratch to be found. I really think his guardian angels must work over time for him. He probably has more than one. I mean, I know how tiring he can be.

So on a daily basis, he destroys the couches, climbs on the dining room table, turns off the computer, tackles his sister, dumps food on the floor, and is my own real- life mini terrorist. And because I love him as any mother loves her child, he'll always be on my top most wanted list.