I am reasonably certain that our youngest son is destined to become a cartoon super villain. Possibly areal-life regular villain, but I was informed that joking about that wasn’t funny, so I’m going the Disney Channel route.
Mini-Me is a clever, hilarious little almost-two-year old, but occasionally his antics worry me. This morning as I prepared for work, he sat in the corner of the living room playing with an old sesame street play set that had been given to us by my mother-in-law (that she no doubt salvaged from somebody else’s junk pile) The play set has a clam-shell type building and a number of little sesame street figures. Mini-Me is quietly and happily playing as toddlers do. I hunt down my many accessories to cram into my pockets and listen to his adorable little yammering as his imagination goes wild.
My wife is sitting on the sofa drinking coffee, and I wandered over to say goodbye. As I start to do so, Mini-Me’s little head pokes up from over the arm of the couch, very reminiscent of the old Kilroy graffiti left all over Europe during World War 2.
Sorry? Dated reference? Stop being a nerd? Fine- here’s what I mean:
With me? Good. Now picture his little head and hands peeking over the arm of the couch like that little bald guy up there and you’ll have the image we saw.
As I looked at him, he starts to elicit little cries for help. Except he can’t say “help” so it sounds like “Haaooo!” “Haaooo!” I go over to check to see what the problem was, and he looks down at a little Elmo figure that he has pinned under the Sesame Street building by its legs.
“Did you trap Elmo?” I asked him.
He nods and begins to laugh a wicked little laugh.
As I start to walk away and worry about the cost of therapy later on, he starts up again.
Turning back, he has now figured out that its funnier to have Elmo trapped under the building BY HIS HEAD. Poor Elmo’s little red feet are sticking out from under the corner of Mr. Hooper’s Store, and the evil mastermind throws his own head back and laughs his deep belly laugh as I stand there frightened of the potential futures that lay in store for my 21 month old bad guy.
I didn’t leave for work so much as I fled, and am trying to figure out exactly how concerned I should be.