The toy box exploded. There is mysterious fuzz embedded in the carpet, lining a crushed layer of Cheerio dust. Pages from what I assume were once books are flung far and wide. And the vehicles sit askew from where the muppets laid down their bikes â€“ tricycle wheels spinning harmlessly head over heels.
I am raising James Bond and Jason Bourne.
Last night, I sat back on the couch as Destroy examined the red toy box blocking the fireplace from several angles. It was unclear if he was interested in any of the toys or simply looking for the box’s weak spot. Search was circling the perimeter.
Destroy began liberating the stuffed animals, one at a time. He would pick each one up, proudly turn to display it to me and then kiss it (his proud new talent) before tossing the toy behind him and repeating this process with the next fluffy bear, moose or mouse.
Aww, I thought. He really is a lover not a fighter.
Before the smile even fully crossed my face there was a flurry of movement. Suddenly my two little black ops boys were wrestling on the ground â€“ teeth barred. Where the heck did Search even come from! I hurled myself off the couch to separate them, but by the time Iâ€™d crossed the 10 feet separating us the two had already split apart and were giggling and smiling.
Search tilted his head, giving me a coy grin, and rested his head on my shoulder. Destroy blew me a kiss. Shortly thereafter I heard a tear.
Pages from â€œThe Very Messy Monkeyâ€ fluttered from the recent mission. During the distraction created via the kissing kerfuffle, four meerkats from the messy monkeyâ€™s jungle had been assassinated. Destroy was chewing on the remnants of the pop-up pages with his shiny sharp new molars.
Search sucked on his sippy cup, casing the latch on the baby gate closing off the living room. Both boys have now figured out how the gate opens and spend quality time trying to scale the bars.
This called for a distraction. So this morning we headed off to the mall for some Christmas shopping and lunch. I figured I could use the tactical prowess of my secret agent men while facing the holiday hoards.
Packages acquired, we sat down for lunch. You certainly canâ€™t have covert toddling operatives without special training â€“ utensils seem like the next logical tool they should be capable of wielding in their arsenal. I gave James and Jason (aka Destroy and Search) spoons.
Destroy began stabbing his quesadilla, which he then finagled a piece onto the silver spoon. Then he slingshot it across the table at the couple next to us reviewing their gift list. Apologies proffered (and a realization that Iâ€™m *that* mom) and I turned my attention to Search who was stealthily trying to discharge each individual crouton from my ceasar salad.
â€œOh! Excuse me,â€ I heard a voice exclaim. Amid the increasing laughter from our table as well as the surrounding patrons, I realized â€“ as if in slow motion â€“ that my son had just goosed the waitress with his spoon. Well, that certainly wasnâ€™t the activity expected from that particular piece of equipmentâ€¦
As Melissa the Waitress began to smile at her pint-sized pursuer, Destroy helped himself to a handful of her tushy. â€œDestroy! Do not grab the serverâ€™s butt!â€ He got a wink and a special wave before we left.
You canâ€™t make this stuff upâ€¦ But a word of warning â€“ this secret opp suavity likely only works when one still needs a booster seat to reach the quesadilla. We may need some additional training.