tiny royalty

Otto Fox Wilder McDonald.

It’s kind of a royal name – right?

I mean, royal in the sense that lots of kings and queens and dukes and duchesses and such have a long series of names – right?

Right?

Well, this week our family decided that its youngest member needed to be crowned king in a few areas.

Like . . .

King of Throwing Objects Into the Toilet

Objects such as a letter magnet.

A wooden block.

A stuffed animal.

Pretty much, if Fox sensed that a toilet lid was left open anywhere in his vicinity he would rush headlong toward that open hole and try to toss in whatever was in his hand, near his hand or, if no object was at hand, he would just toss in his own hand.

King of Smiles

Man, that kid a grinning machine.

He sat in the backseat, all buckled down with straps and nylon and foam-encased plastic, and manufactured grins as if it was his job.

We didn’t even have to work to earn the grins.  We just had to breathe in his general direction.

Sometimes his grins were out of control.  They couldn’t just stay on his face.  I guess his face is still too tiny to hold all of that smiling.  He would start cranking out those smiles and they would spread across his cheeks and then he just couldn’t hold still – his little head would bob and his grin would somehow take over his entire foot and a half body – right down to his tiny wriggling bare toes.  I tell you, if a baby’s toes can smile, Otto’s can.

King of Loudness

This kid is loud.

Unless you have heard this, you probably won’t believe me.

Yes.  It is embarrassing.

Because he is loud at all the wrong times.  Particularly inside buildings.  I think he has decided that the smaller the building, the more crowded the space is with people who do not love crying children, the louder he will be.

The funny thing about being King of Smiles and King of Loudness is that he cannot be both at the same time.  When he is one, he is most definitely not the other.

King of Recklessness

Yeah, we were all kind of convinced we already had a leading monarch around these here parts for this title.  (You might know him by his street name – Hawkeye.)  But I am afraid to say, the smallest man is trying to give him a run for his money.

And trying to scare me into old age and gray hair into a hurry while he’s at it.

The house where we stayed on vacation had maybe eleventy million stairs in about that many directions.  I was responsible and brought our baby gate with us but one baby gate was not going to cut it at this place.  We used all of our resources at hand – coolers, big baskets, strollers, other children’s bodies – but mostly to no avail.  The wee escape artist plotted and schemed all week to gain freedom at all cost.

He brought that same sense of impulse and daring to the beach scene as well.

If Otto saw a wave, he ran for it.  Guess what is endless at the beach?  Uh.  Waves.  We tried distraction.  Sometimes it worked.  Sort of.  I imagine his thought process was a little like this . . . “Wave.  Wave.  Wave.  Oh, sand is coo- wave!”

There was this one awful time.  When Kevin and I had a bit of parental miscommunication and the little emperor in his new clothes dashed like a lunatic to the waves he had so long desired.  The first wave washed across his legs and he broke out into his grins.  But the second wave.  Oh, the second wave.  That one washed over his legs too.  And his arms and his head.  It was probably only about two seconds before he was lifted up to safety, but it was a frighteningly long two seconds.

Sally said I might be sorry giving a child a handle like Wilde Fox.  I might just brand him.  Uh-oh.  What if is she was right?