A Message to Big Al

Hey you. Yes you. My youngest daughter. Or as we like to call you, "that one what is going to maim herself before age 3."

I found my sweater. The one I had lovingly handwashed and then left to dry flat because that is what it says on the label. I know you took it off the drying rack. Don't give me those eyes, I know it was you. You know how? Because I found it up under the computer desk with a beater for the mixer and a copy of The Belly Button Book. As far as I know, you are the a) the only Sandra Boynton reader in the house and b) the only person who steals beaters and then pantomines licking things off of them. The rest of us wait until they are covered in sugary fat substances first.

So I'm playing hardball. Here you go, Alice. Embarassing photo time.

Yup, that's you. Asleep in your Jumperoo. Yes, it was a while ago. I found it on the memory cards you had stuck in your super secret hiding place. Look at how fat you were! This has got "college boyfriend" written all over it.

This also makes me fondly think of those times when you couldn't walk or crawl, when things were simple and I didn't have to find the sweater I had planned on wearing today crumpled into a ball under the computer desk. When I didn't have to lock the toilet after I used it. Before you got that look in your eye all the time that made me have heart palpitations and wonder if there was anything ANYWHERE that you could reach and then throw down the cold air return. Before you came a very exciting little child, hellbent on wrecking our house and making us laugh and laughing like something that they caught on Criminal Minds last week.

You light up our lives, Lil' Destroyer.