Seriously--that picture tells a lot about this guy. For instance, he likes to dress up in goofy outfits. (Sadly enough, this was my father's university graduation robe. No, he didn't go to Hugh Hefner U. He refused to walk, and his sisters made him wear this at the party they threw. Revenge Merkley style. And the good times linger.) He really likes weapons of all sorts--especially when he's made them himself, which he does out of every material imaginable. If I ever gave the boy a pile of fabric he'd try to make a gun or a sword out of it. It'd be interesting, but less than lethal, thank goodness. This is the child who tried to persuade me to buy him a pirate sword at Sea World, for pity's sake. Not a dolphin, or a whale toy--a sword with no connection to the place. How many pirates are there at Sea World? (I didn't relent, so he opted for a biting shark toy, instead. Same effect, different path.)
Charlie was very nearly named Calvin--but my mother insisted that it was not good form to name a child after a raging terror of a comic-strip character. She thought it would warp his personality. Apparently, merely thinking about it does the same thing. If any child could be considered the living embodiment of Calvin, Charlie's the one. He has sticky-up blond hair. He's six. He spends most of his day exasperating me with his mischief and attempted mayhem. Like Calvin he isn't mean-spirited, just way more boy than his mother can sanely handle.
Right now he's supposed to be putting away the clean dishes. There were twenty or so of them--utensils included. It has taken him sixty minutes, and he still has ten dishes left. He's been filling the time with trips to the bathroom--I REALLY hope he washed his hands well, banging on pots with whisks, hanging spoons from his nose--they were rescued from the drawer and tossed back into the sink, and making faces at the baby so no nap can be taken. I've admonished him thirty-seven times, and I'm going to lose my patience soon. What, on God's green earth, is the natural consequence for dawdling over putting dishes away? More dishes to put away? Heaven forbid! It's summer, so the day is long enough to fit in whatever he wants, so merely allowing him to waste his time isn't doing anything. AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!! We have this problem every day.
In spite of that--and in spite of the high blood pressure and heart palpitations he has caused--I still love this dude. He makes me laugh. He hugs me unexpectedly--but never when told to do so by his father. He says what's on his mind, loudly and with great emphasis. He can think of sixty-nine inventions to catch a fly, but is baffled by the simple process of hanging up his towel.
This is a child of destiny.
["How'd I do, Charlie?" "Good. Great! " "You're welcome. Get back to doing the dishes."]
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