When I climbed into bed the other night, I received a most unwelcome surprise: there, lying innocently underneath the covers and right below my pillow, was a cheese spreader. I retraced the day's events and instantly recalled Cameron pulling out the utensil drawer, reaching on his tip toes, stretching out his grimy little hand, and triumphantly pulling out the cheese spreader. In my mind's eye, I fast forward half an hour, and I see Cameron gleefully wielding the cheese spreader and thrusting it in my direction, all the while chanting, "My knife! My knife!" It's almost like he wanted me to see it so I would know who left it for me later. And with that, I realize that my precious first-born son has just made an open threat on my life. His message is clear, "Should I choose to, I could end you with this blunt edge object."
So now I'm left to answer the question, "Why?" What have I done that warranted such drastic actions on his part? Was it the fact that I was completely engrossed in re-reading The Hunger Games in preparation for the movie and basically ignored him while he watched Curious George? Was he still angry that I wouldn't let him bring his beloved blankie into the bath? Or maybe it was because I mistakenly put him down on his changing table in the direction he doesn't prefer, so he had to frantically insist "Wrong way! Wrong way! Wrong way!" until I noticed the error of my ways. Whatever it was, I now realize I've underestimated my son.
Consider myself warned.
