You mom and I have begun calling you “The Monster.” You are everywhere, on everything, under everything, and you try to put everything in your mouth. We have an ankle weight on the trash can lid, that I’m sure you’ll be strong enough to lift in a week or two. We only use one outlet in the living room and we’ve had to build a fort of pillows, chairs and an ottoman to keep you from unplugging the computer.
Your mom worked so hard to make our living space feel like a comfortable home, taking great care in deciding where tea tins should go, where photos would look best, which counter space best facilitated the dish drainer. It was all in vain.
Now everything is stacked high, giving the illusion that people a foot taller than your mother and I live in the basement at grandma and grandpa’s. Whatever won’t go on a shelf we hide behind the couch, in cramped closets, under beds and in the dark corners of our home.
You find it all. Because you are a Monster.