What you say can and will be held against you in a court of toddler.
In spite of the fact that we are drowning in intellectual, mind-stimulating Einstein toys around here, nothing is more alluring to Sean than the one dangerous, poisonous, sharp, breakable, non-baby-proofed thing that is not nailed down and within his reach. And remarkably his reach is that of an NBA center.
It used to be that I could get something away from him with the distraction tactic. “Oh look Sean! Someone is riding a zebra in our backyard!” When he turned his head to look for the zebra, I would swipe the – steak knife, straight pin, ink pen, Drano, lipstick, coveted caustic item of the moment – and replace it with something which I pretended was equally fascinating. When he looked back to find an empty butter tub instead of a steak knife, I feined ignorance, which for me is not really feining at all.
Now that he is a little older and wiser, the game of switcheroo doesn’t work. So when I catch him running through the house with sissors, I lasso him, hogtie him and confiscate the contraband. Then I soothe him by telling him that he’s only two and that he’s too young to run with sissors — maybe when he’s three.
So the other day, before bedtime, I called into the den, “Sean, it’s time to get ready for bed. Let’s get some of those toys picked up.” And he called back, “I’m too young. Maybe when I’m three.”
“Oh yeah?” I said. “Well, then…. ok.” And then I stood there waiting for some snappy mommy come back to pop into my head. Still waiting.