22 months and why I hate the cat
The Bexter is twenty-two months old today. That's two months short of two years for those of you who are keeping track. We have a full fledged wild man of a toddler on our hands. Help.
At this very moment the boy is in his crib. Awake. Not napping. Awake. Talking in fact. He is calling for his DaDa, but since Ken is away on business until Friday I fear that the boy will be disappointed to find that nobody but me will be coming to his rescue today. In any event, he should be napping. He should be asleep all cozy in his bed, but the cat managed to hide under his crib. After I had deposited the wee man for nap time and exited the room I started to hear the cat yowling. I finally found her. Under the crib. Needless to say, after the excitement of a cat extraction from beneath his bed, Bex is hesitant to sleep. I can't say I blame him. He's probably wondering what else lurks below his mattress. Poor kid will need therapy. All that to say, I hate the cat.
At this very moment the boy is in his crib. Awake. Not napping. Awake. Talking in fact. He is calling for his DaDa, but since Ken is away on business until Friday I fear that the boy will be disappointed to find that nobody but me will be coming to his rescue today. In any event, he should be napping. He should be asleep all cozy in his bed, but the cat managed to hide under his crib. After I had deposited the wee man for nap time and exited the room I started to hear the cat yowling. I finally found her. Under the crib. Needless to say, after the excitement of a cat extraction from beneath his bed, Bex is hesitant to sleep. I can't say I blame him. He's probably wondering what else lurks below his mattress. Poor kid will need therapy. All that to say, I hate the cat.
