The neighbors still come to visit him. He loves being so adored. And yesterday, as I was cleaning up the shattered remains of a light-bulb (yep, you guess it -- Jack broke it when he knocked over the lamp... again), she said that she felt sorry for me. Uhoh. Nothing that follows that sentence from the mouth of a child is ever good. It usually comes right before a simple innocent observation -- something like "why are you bigger than everyone else?" (Yes, that happened to me.) So I braced myself and tried to hide the expectant cringe when I asked her why. Do you know what she said?
"Because you have to come home from work everyday and clean up all the stuff Jack broke."
HA! I laughed (as I used the pliers to attempt to remove the light-bulbs remaining base). That's so true. But I like the little fucker. Everyone says he'll grow out of this destructive phase -- the one that breaks my lamps and clears off the tables and counter tops every night -- that has already broken an entire set of glasses since we've lived here -- that climbs into my craft bag at night and eats my paintbrushes. But some of the devilishness amuses me to no end. Two days ago when I woke up and pulled back the shower curtain, I found Jacks toys -- all of them -- in the bath tub. Clever. And I love how he purrs constantly. And last night -- for a few brief moments -- I tricked him into curling up in my arms in bed so I could hold his purring fuzzy form like a teddy bear. It melted my heart.
I like Jack. And on the bright side -- rather than living alone and jumping at every single creak from the upstairs neighbor -- I now hear things shatter on a regular nightly basis and just ignore it. It's good for me.