He was free to touch whatever he wanted. The grandparents were OK with that. They drew the line, though, at having their affairs strewn about the house. The wax doves from the centerpiece were unceremoniously tossed over the edge of the table and had their wings snapped off upon contact with the floor, the roll of toilet paper unspooled down the hall and the spatula lay drool-covered at the bottom of the stairwell like some poor murder victim tossed into a gulch (both the spatula and the murder victim bore the teeth-marks of the guilty psychopath — the toddler was still teething).
So when the daughter returned home with darling 2-year-old Lucas the grandparents sat happy, watching the adorable little chunkybutt trying his hardest to pull the pots from off the range and the ceramic elk from off the mantle, marvelously ignorant of the fact that everything in their house was now nailed into place, except for the hammer, which they simply glued into their tool drawer. (The empty tube of glue, the last loose thing in the house, was left in a neighbor’s trash bin.)
Oh, how he screamed. Screamed until the windows rattled and five rivers flowed from his face: two for tears, two for snot, one for drool. (He was still teething.) And the daughter called them crazy. She vowed never to return. They were sad. Then they realized, they could no longer change the seasonal displays. Then they were distraught.
They reconsidered. Levered out the million nails. Bought molten lead from the foundry, blocks of steel from the scrap-yard. Better enterprise, they decided, in simply weighing things down.
It worked like a charm. At his next visit the little tubbybutt could not disturb their decorations, but they, the adults, could move things around as they so wished. Could choose what he played with, could choose which things moved. And can still switch out the shell display for summer.
The mother and her tiny gooey baby visited more and more often. Lucas’ name filled up their calendar. While changing his diaper one day the grandmother remarked: what large muscles for a baby. Must have been working out. That day, the 50-pound pair of boots began to budge under his hand. He lifted the ladle that was twice his own weight while the family watched in horror. His tiny sleeves tore from the force within: the force of the toddler's rippling muscles, the bodybuilder of a baby they created.
Drew Kiser is a Humor writer.
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