Butcher Knives

So, Conrad only made me cry three times this last month. He's absolutely the best, happiest, little character in the world, but I literally cannot keep up with him and find myself at my wit's end and wittled to tears quite often. On the day of his most memorable of antics though, I called my husband at work crying (even though our therapist told me to knock it off).

"Honey, I can't do it! I can't do this any more!"

"What? Do what?"

"Parent him! I can't do anything! I can't turn my back for one freakin' second without him almost killing himself!"

"What happened?"

Sniffle...Sniffle. Exhale.

"Conrad and I were sitting at the table coloring. And Paul came over to talk to me about the stupid, barking dog behind our house. And I went to give him a hug for helping me out and walked him to the door. By the time I turned and walked into the kitchen, Conrad had broke the lock on the knife drawer and had all our perfect Cutco knives that Oma and Opa bought us last year for Christmas strewn across the counter!"

"Ok. Is he ok?"

"Yes, but that's not all! The butcher knife was out, the cleaver, the bread knife! All of them! The paring knife was sticking straight out of the dishwasher vent and to top it off, the plastic cover of the blue knife was melting in the fire of the gas stove that he turned on! Seth!"

Ba-wa-wa-wa-wa.

"Um, are you ok?" he asks calmly and inattentively, sitting doing his awsome insurance salesman paperwork.

"No. No, I'm not ok. Our kid, at 22 months old and in 60 seconds, snapped the knife drawer safety gadget, turned on the gas stove, laid out a nice knife display, stabbed the dishwasher, and lit a knife on fire. No, I'm not ok."

Today's prayer: "Lord, You never give us more than we can handle. Conrad turns 2 in a couple weeks, please let this be the end of the terrible 2s and not a beginning. I can't handle much more!"