Children are like Taxes, it may not be something you want to pay for but it is better to handle the hard stuff now before you end up a criminal. There are ups and there are downs with every child, if you don’t realize that yet, please don’t have children. This is one story about my little downer. It isn’t hard to understand when you have a real problem child on your hands. At 19 months this little fire ball can talk, walk and accurately toss food at you from across the room. He is sensitive and sweet, but only when his fangs aren’t showing. I like to think that this propensity towards violence has a purpose, perhaps he will grow up to be a hostage negotiator, since he understands the concepts so well. When I was picking out this childs name, the third and final time I would ever go through the process, I wanted something strong and independent. A name fit for a little king. We chose Michael to honor his grandfather and to provide him with a grounded name and a solid personality. I wish I would have named him sally, I think he might have been a little easier to handle. Yesterday the entire house was struck with a case of food poisoning. Lunch with grandpa included a buffet with less than cooked sausage, of which we all consumed. No one was feeling well yesterday so we spent our time laying around the house and taking turns moaning on the bathroom floor. Mike was exceptionally sweet and subdued, something he does every once in a while to make sure we still love him enough to not dress him in pink and stick him on someone else’s porch. He wasn’t feeling well, no one was, and he wasn’t quite sure how to tell us about it. After a solid twelve hours of laying around the house and fighting over the giant bean bag, everyone was starting to feel better. It wasn’t until baby daddy turned to Michael and asked if he was feeling better. Michael stood atop the back of the couch like some ill intentioned spider man and proclaimed to the entire room for the first time: “Fuck Yeah, dad.” A wide grin spreading across his beautiful little face as he steadied himself for the shock wave he was certain was coming. My jaw drops to the floor. I snort in disbelief as I begin to reconstruct my brain into understanding that the tiny mouth that lovingly tells me such glowing sentiments like “wuv you” and “go bye bye?” had suddenly gotten around to using the F word. You know my stance on cursing. Don’t do it unless you can do it right. I glance to baby daddy who is staring wide eyed at the little boy who is the last in line to carry his name into the future, the hope of his namesake, the little king with a cursing problem. Sigh. ‘What are we going to do?’ I mouth in his direction, silent exasperation for the situation. I shrug my shoulders in desperation. I throw my hands up in disgust as Michael crumbles in laughter and swan dives into the couch. His grace is always a little startling, perhaps I should have named him Grace. Without skipping a beat, Baby Daddy turns to me and says “I guess we have to homeschool this one.” I agree.

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