Sean has taken on an alter ego. He has brainwashed and assimilated Mr. Monkey into doing his will and Mr. Monkey is powerless to stop it. And I’m afraid I’m next.
Mr. Monkey does all the things around here that Sean wants to do but doesn’t want to take responsibility for. I first noticed this around Christmas time when I spied Sean under the tree with Mr. Monkey. He was guiding Mr. Monkey’s mitten of a hand toward the switch that turns on the tree lights.
When he emerged from the brightly lit tree, I asked him who turned on the tree lights, because I reminded him, if you will recall from an earlier discussion we had on this topic, only Mommy or Daddy are allowed to do that. And that’s when he thrust Mr. Monkey forward and with a solemn expression said, “Monkey dit it.” So I gave Mr. Monkey a strongly worded warning. And Sean, wearing a furrowed brow and shaking his finger in reprimand in Mr. Monkey’s face added, “Bad Mr. Monkey!”
Mr. Monkey has become an unwitting accomplice in Sean’s emerging violent expressions, which I think (at least I hope and pray) are typical in a two-year-old. Sean constructs the Sears Tower of blocks and then holds up Mr. Monkey and urges him to knock the tower down. And when Mr. Monkey can resist the pull of gravity no more and the blocks go crashing to the ground, Sean exclaims in mock disbelief, “Monkey dit it! Monkey dit it!” Sean installs Noah and Mrs. Noah in his Tonka truck and then employs Mr. Monkey to sail them off the coffee table like Thelma and Louise.
When I found my watch in the washing machine? Monkey dit it. When the shower curtain fell because someone was hanging on it? Monkey dit it. When I found the purged contents of Sean’s dresser all over his bedroom floor? Monkey. When I found a bag of Cheetos in Sean’s closet? You guessed it, Monkey. Although, remarkably it was Sean who had orange fingers.
Not only does Mr. Monkey have to take the blame for everything, he also has to taste test all the food and medicine, just in case Mommy is trying to poison the family with chicken nuggets or Children’s Claritin. And only Mr. Monkey can pick out bananas in the store. But I’m okay with that because who better to pick out bananas?
Now that Sean has a cult of one, I think he’s working on me. The other day he wanted a bag of M&Ms he apparently saw me put in my purse. So he grabbed me by the hand and lead me to my purse and then shoved my hand down into the Bermuda triangle of gum and lipstick and receipts. And just like those little cranes you see at the fair, he worked my hand until I pulled out the prize. And like Mr. Monkey, I seemed to be powerless to resist. And like Mr. Monkey I’m starting to wear that obedient glazed over expression. And furthermore, the other day when Antique Daddy found some crumbs on the sofa and asked who had been eating in the den, Sean and I looked at each other and said “Monkey dit it.”