My last blog entry talked about my daughter and a bucket of chicken. It’s hard to fault someone who needs a midnight snack, but apparently, it’s a genetic thing…
Once again, it was the middle of the night and I heard noise. At this time of my life, I was definitely hypervigilant. We were waiting on our orders to go to the Mideast so I swear I only slept with one eye at a time. I didn’t want to miss the phone call because I was part of the forward crew and it was a twenty-minute drive to my post during the best of traffic.
As I said, I heard a noise. This time there was little mystery about the sound because it was the television and it was on a German station. I got up out of bed and made my way to the living room. I fully expected to see either my daughter or oldest son, but what greeted me gave me a little pause.
There sitting on my favorite chair, a tan recliner I loved, was a little brown moving mass wearing my army boots. When I heard the giggle, I realized it must be human. Not a fully grown human…not even a half fully grown human. This little brown moving mass was about 15 months old if my guess of identity was right. At the time, he was my youngest son.
What I saw was a giggling little boy with a brown blob in his brown little hands. When the television changed to a different German channel, I realized the little blob was the remote control. I took a step closer to try to identify the brown substance. A quick glance on the floor revealed a cleaned out pan with very little remnants of what it used to hold. I recognized it as the very same pan that once held a batch of fudge, oh, probably only an hour ago. Now, most of the fudge coated my little boy…and the remote…and my boots…and my chair. As if to put a period on his pre-toddler statement of affairs, he reached over and took a swig of soda from a can he cleverly concealed in, wait for it, fudge. He was a work of little brown moving mass art.
It took me an hour to clean everything, little boy, chair, and all. Luckily, I didn’t get the call that night to deploy. I believe that came the next night. I was also lucky because I found out second-hand what a pan of fudge will do to a fifteen-month-old child, or more notably, his diaper. Um, apparently for more than a couple days.
Moral of this story? Although there’s not many things worse than going to war, I have to believe I dodged a different kind of bullet in this case. Or should I say, weapon of mass destruction?