untitledson has been a savage since Monday. We set our clocks ahead on Sunday, but he’s now on mountain time — which is fitting, given how rocky things have been ever since. The little cuss won’t fall asleep until 9 or 10 p.m., no matter when we lay him down. He sits in his bed in the dark, rolling his little cars over the hills and valleys of his bedding. He pages through his books. He recites satanic incantations (a.k.a dialogue from “Air Buds”).
One night, he came sauntering down the stairs in time to watch the opening minute of “Rome” with us, featuring some old school doggy-style action. “Where’s the clicker! WHERE’S THE CLICKER!” By the time we found it and changed the channel, Atia and Mark Antony were eating nachos and watching Conan.
We check on him when we go to bed, and he’s laying there in the middle of all this crap. The blankets are a twisted mess, and he looks like he spent one to many nights playing Stratego before crashing amongst the empty bags of Doritos and crushed Red Bull cans. By 5 a.m., he is recharged. That’s when he drags all of his booty into our bed for a pre-dawn party. I have woken up more than once with a Hot Wheel stuck to my torso. And let me tell you — it feels magnificent.
At the very least, he wants his cereal and milk. “Here’s your Kix, here’s your banana, here’s your milk. Now eat, watch the Wiggles and don’t return to our room until the sun is up. Unless you see flames or hear an explosion. Then, and only then, can you come get us.”
As bad as we have it, his Montessori teachers have it worse. He’s been spitting at them, screaming, crying and being an overall pain in the ass. His teacher called me Friday at 10 a.m. and said I needed to bring him home, for he was posing a threat to Homeland Security (or something like that). Even the naughtiest boy in class (his best friend, unfortunately) told him to settle the fuck down lest he get an ass-whoopin’ from the looming mob of four year-olds who were sick of his shenanigans (again, I paraphrase).
So I left work early and hauled the poor thing home. A pariah in his own classroom, he skulked to the car and rode the whole way hunched over like Margaret Thatcher in the St. Patty’s parade. Once home, he slept for three hours, and woke up a sweaty mess. It’s as if his demonic fluids has escaped from his scalp. He woke up looking like that mugshot of Nick Nolte after his weekend bender. He’d also wet himself (a rarity) — which was further proof that the evil would take any path necessary to escape. If this continues, there is no way he’s staying up late to watch the “Real Sex” with us.