Only he didn’t really go through it this time. But it is officially broken.
Baby Bear’s bedroom window is covered with an adhesive tinted sheet to cut down on glare from the sun and the neighbor’s white vinyl fence. We gave up trying to keep blinds or shades on the window, because he kept tearing them down. Fortunately his bedroom window is behind the gate leading to our back yard, so I don’t have to fret about passers-by peering inside (like they did when we lived in publicly accessible military housing out in California twenty years ago).
Anyway, it seems we should credit the tinted sheet with preventing shattered glass from flying everywhere and potentially cutting the Ursine Terror. The pane is still in place, boasting a lovely jagged pattern that could be a spider web or even a giant snowflake.
The point of impact is at roughly the same height to match his forehead (he’s now 6’4”), so I’m guessing this was another headbutting job.
“We knew he was going to do it eventually,” was all Mr. Lucky had to say about it.
But I suppose this means all betting books are now closed on the sliding glass door to the patio.
Showing posts with label What Took Him So Long?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label What Took Him So Long?. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Baby Bear Finally Notices the Dogs' Water
Over a year ago, we bought our dogs a new water cooler similar to the old one (pictured below), after it sprang a leak that surreptitiously soaked the carpet in the linen closet. Phyllis rightly marveled at the fact that Aquaboy, aka Baby Bear, had never bothered with it.
She must’ve forgotten to knock on wood when she left that comment, because this afternoon he finally noticed it.
I was sitting at my computer when I heard the splattering sound, whereupon I leaped to my feet, yelled his name and demanded to know what he was doing (like he’s going to respond and confess, but hope springs eternal). I entered the kitchen just in time to see him place the water cooler on the counter, and don that nonchalant “who-knows-what-she’s-yelling-about-now” demeanor that he inherited from his father.
Apparently he picked it up from the floor, tipped it upside-down, and bombs away.
At least he dumped it on the kitchen floor instead of choosing a carpeted area. That’s progress enough for me.
But heaven help us if he ever figures out how to disassemble it while full. Knock on wood.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Baby Bear's Adventures Through the Breaking Glass
An alternate subject line considered was, “What took him so long to break a window?”
I always feared it would be the sliding glass door to the patio (into which he does the occasional body slam), or his bedroom window (where I once caught him perched on the window sill as if he were about to use it as a diving board), or the glass doors on the curio cabinet (he likes to sit in front of it and peer past the knickknacks to his reflection in the back mirror).
But no, it was the living room window he broke and since there were no witnesses and he doesn’t/can’t talk, I have no idea how he did it. As always when these things happen, Mr. Lucky was at work, but when he came home later that night and surveyed the damage, he surmised that Baby Bear must have banged his head against the glass hard enough to shatter it. The kid does enjoy headbanging and our walls have numerous dents to prove it.
Those dents are getting higher every year, and I could probably go through every room of the house and assign an approximate date to each dent based on how high it is from the floor. Who needs fancy growth charts?
But I digress.
It was shortly before 8 pm the other night and I’d just taken dinner out of the oven when I heard the ominous crash from the living room. I rushed in to find a jagged hole in the upper window pane, and a bewildered looking Bear just standing there. He never made a sound and he looked all right, so I led him to his room for safety’s sake while I cleaned up the broken glass from the floor.
Then I went back to his room where he sat quietly on the edge of his bed. He was covered with blood.
To my horror, the worst of it was streaming down the inside corner of his eye along his nose, striking fear in my heart that he’d gotten glass in his eye. But I soon ascertained that the blood was coming from a cut on his forehead. He also had a cut on his lower arm. The poor thing had smeared blood all over himself, so he only looked worse than he really was until he was properly cleaned up and bandaged.
All the while, he never let out a peep. He went back to playing his keyboard and making his usual crooning noises while rocking on the loveseat in the family room, as if nothing had happened.
I also found broken glass in the front yard; big shards that flew up to ten feet from the house. I retrieved his ball that he likes to carry around, but there’s no way it could’ve broken the window. It’s a baseball sized “sensory” ball that weighs no more than two ounces.
Perhaps Mr. Lucky is right. It must’ve been that boy’s big hard head that did it.
As for replacing the broken window, I had the usual worst case visions of window repair specialists who wouldn’t be able to come out until two weeks from next Tuesday and bills in the hundreds of dollars; but Mr. Lucky replaced the pane himself the very next day, and it only cost him $24.00.
I like being wrong.
I always feared it would be the sliding glass door to the patio (into which he does the occasional body slam), or his bedroom window (where I once caught him perched on the window sill as if he were about to use it as a diving board), or the glass doors on the curio cabinet (he likes to sit in front of it and peer past the knickknacks to his reflection in the back mirror).
But no, it was the living room window he broke and since there were no witnesses and he doesn’t/can’t talk, I have no idea how he did it. As always when these things happen, Mr. Lucky was at work, but when he came home later that night and surveyed the damage, he surmised that Baby Bear must have banged his head against the glass hard enough to shatter it. The kid does enjoy headbanging and our walls have numerous dents to prove it.
Those dents are getting higher every year, and I could probably go through every room of the house and assign an approximate date to each dent based on how high it is from the floor. Who needs fancy growth charts?
But I digress.
It was shortly before 8 pm the other night and I’d just taken dinner out of the oven when I heard the ominous crash from the living room. I rushed in to find a jagged hole in the upper window pane, and a bewildered looking Bear just standing there. He never made a sound and he looked all right, so I led him to his room for safety’s sake while I cleaned up the broken glass from the floor.
Then I went back to his room where he sat quietly on the edge of his bed. He was covered with blood.
To my horror, the worst of it was streaming down the inside corner of his eye along his nose, striking fear in my heart that he’d gotten glass in his eye. But I soon ascertained that the blood was coming from a cut on his forehead. He also had a cut on his lower arm. The poor thing had smeared blood all over himself, so he only looked worse than he really was until he was properly cleaned up and bandaged.
All the while, he never let out a peep. He went back to playing his keyboard and making his usual crooning noises while rocking on the loveseat in the family room, as if nothing had happened.
I also found broken glass in the front yard; big shards that flew up to ten feet from the house. I retrieved his ball that he likes to carry around, but there’s no way it could’ve broken the window. It’s a baseball sized “sensory” ball that weighs no more than two ounces.
Perhaps Mr. Lucky is right. It must’ve been that boy’s big hard head that did it.
As for replacing the broken window, I had the usual worst case visions of window repair specialists who wouldn’t be able to come out until two weeks from next Tuesday and bills in the hundreds of dollars; but Mr. Lucky replaced the pane himself the very next day, and it only cost him $24.00.
I like being wrong.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Baby Bear Wrecks a Laptop
That’s the bad news. The good news: It wasn’t mine.
Mr. Lucky likes to put his laptop on a folding tray in front of the sofa in the family room. This allows him to simultaneously watch TV and play Lord Master of the Universal Planetary Federation of Civilizations, Empires, and Neighborhood Associations, or whatever that game is that allows him to annihilate the inhabitants of entire galaxies for the resources to build his own shopping mall and theme park.
Except when he’s asleep or at work, he leaves the laptop yawning like a crocodile at all times.
I’ve warned him not to do it, especially if Baby Bear is on the prowl. Anytime Mr. Lucky turns his back on the open laptop, even for a few moments, Baby Bear swoops down and slaps it shut.
That’s all. He closes it and moves on to the next shiny object. That may not seem like a big deal, but on rare occasions, he’s been known to wreak havoc by the simple act of hitting a few random keys, and once he even toppled the tray table and open laptop to the floor, fortunately without consequences.
But it was only a matter of time before certain odds and laws dictated those consequences.
The other night, we sat down to dinner. While Baby Bear is more than willing to pull up a chair and join us, we have a hard time getting him to remain at the table until meal’s end. He always finds a reason to get up more than once during dinner to do something else, even if it’s to close a gaping laptop, which is exactly what he did in this case.
One of the things I like about my own laptop is that I don’t need a mouse. I just use the fingerpad. I find it liberating, especially as the mouse is one less thing for Baby Bear to steal and bury at the bottom of his toybox like a dog with a bone. I know because I’ve had to go on in-house archeological expeditions for his own mouse.
But Mr. Lucky, tool of the mouse industry, insists on having one. And on this day, he left it sitting on the keyboard.
Baby Bear did not remove the mouse; most likely he did not even notice it. All he saw was a wide open laptop, and that would not do. He slammed down the lid. Mr. Lucky yelled. Baby Bear returned to the table to resume dining. Mr. Lucky ran to the laptop, and opened it to discover one corner of the screen was smashed.
He didn’t think the kid would do it. He thought the laptop would be safe, since he could see it from where he sat at the table. He was positive Baby Bear wouldn’t touch it as long as he was watching.
Men. You just can’t warn them and tell them you’re right. They always have to find out for themselves—and it’s always the hard, expensive way that usually leads to a repair shop, the insurance company, an emergency room, or any combination of the three. It’s that Y chromosome.
But until he can get the screen fixed, he’s compelled to do what I had to do when my screen burned out earlier this year: He’s back to the desktop in his office.
Only now he can’t watch TV at the same time—unless he can figure out a way to make the whole setup fit on that folding tray table, or move the TV into his office.
Mr. Lucky likes to put his laptop on a folding tray in front of the sofa in the family room. This allows him to simultaneously watch TV and play Lord Master of the Universal Planetary Federation of Civilizations, Empires, and Neighborhood Associations, or whatever that game is that allows him to annihilate the inhabitants of entire galaxies for the resources to build his own shopping mall and theme park.
Except when he’s asleep or at work, he leaves the laptop yawning like a crocodile at all times.
I’ve warned him not to do it, especially if Baby Bear is on the prowl. Anytime Mr. Lucky turns his back on the open laptop, even for a few moments, Baby Bear swoops down and slaps it shut.
That’s all. He closes it and moves on to the next shiny object. That may not seem like a big deal, but on rare occasions, he’s been known to wreak havoc by the simple act of hitting a few random keys, and once he even toppled the tray table and open laptop to the floor, fortunately without consequences.
But it was only a matter of time before certain odds and laws dictated those consequences.
The other night, we sat down to dinner. While Baby Bear is more than willing to pull up a chair and join us, we have a hard time getting him to remain at the table until meal’s end. He always finds a reason to get up more than once during dinner to do something else, even if it’s to close a gaping laptop, which is exactly what he did in this case.
One of the things I like about my own laptop is that I don’t need a mouse. I just use the fingerpad. I find it liberating, especially as the mouse is one less thing for Baby Bear to steal and bury at the bottom of his toybox like a dog with a bone. I know because I’ve had to go on in-house archeological expeditions for his own mouse.
But Mr. Lucky, tool of the mouse industry, insists on having one. And on this day, he left it sitting on the keyboard.
Baby Bear did not remove the mouse; most likely he did not even notice it. All he saw was a wide open laptop, and that would not do. He slammed down the lid. Mr. Lucky yelled. Baby Bear returned to the table to resume dining. Mr. Lucky ran to the laptop, and opened it to discover one corner of the screen was smashed.
He didn’t think the kid would do it. He thought the laptop would be safe, since he could see it from where he sat at the table. He was positive Baby Bear wouldn’t touch it as long as he was watching.
Men. You just can’t warn them and tell them you’re right. They always have to find out for themselves—and it’s always the hard, expensive way that usually leads to a repair shop, the insurance company, an emergency room, or any combination of the three. It’s that Y chromosome.
But until he can get the screen fixed, he’s compelled to do what I had to do when my screen burned out earlier this year: He’s back to the desktop in his office.
Only now he can’t watch TV at the same time—unless he can figure out a way to make the whole setup fit on that folding tray table, or move the TV into his office.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
In Which Baby Bear Locks Karen Out of the House
Baby Bear has figured out how to unlock the sliding glass door, so Mr. Lucky cut a two-by-four to fit into the bottom runner. It doesn’t just drop in; it has to be carefully worked in.
Last night, while Mr. Lucky was at work, I opened the sliding glass door so the dogs could go into the backyard to do their business. I went out there with them because otherwise, they’d head for their secret escape route under the fence. (I think they’re squeezing out under the gate, but Mr. Lucky doesn’t think that’s possible because the gate is locked both top and bottom.)
After a few moments, I noticed Baby Bear was at the door, his nose and lips pressed against the glass. Since I can’t lock the door from the outside, I thought it quite odd that he was making no attempt to come running out as he usually does. I pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge.
He must've locked it. I pointed to it and yelled at him to unlock it.
He laughed and danced. I pounded on the glass and yelled some more. He finally clicked the lock, I pulled on the door handle, and . . . it didn’t budge.
Did he unlock it, only to quickly lock it again? After more yelling and pounding on my side of the glass, and more laughing and dancing on his side, he clicked the lock again as I quickly seized the door handle and . . . it still didn’t budge.
That’s when I noticed, to my horror, that the two-by-four had been neatly placed into the runner behind the other glass panel. The little sneak had figured it out!
More yelling and pounding and pointing ensued, this time all of it directed to the two-by-four. Bear tapped his toes on it a few times, but showed no inclination to remove it. He was thoroughly enjoying this.
I was not. I was trapped in the backyard, and I was panic-stricken. It was dusk, I could hear thunder in the distance, and Mr. Lucky wasn’t due home for another four hours. My only consolation was there was nothing in the oven or on the stove.
The windows were all closed and locked from the inside. I was barefoot and wearing a tank top and very short shorts, so I wasn’t exactly dressed for scaling the six foot high wooden fence that enclosed the yard. Besides, there was nothing to boost me over but an unsturdy patio chair, and the table was too heavy to drag from the patio to the fence. The gate was secured with a padlock that required a key. But even if I did find a way out of the backyard--there was a shovel handy, so I suppose I could've dug my way out, like the dogs--I still wouldn’t be able to get in the house because the garage and front door were also locked, and my keys were inside the house.
Wouldn’t you know it? Believe it or not, I usually keep my keys with me, even around the house, for Baby Bear’s safety and security. I should probably get one of those things my father used to have, that you clip to your waistband and you pull the keys out on a chain. Or a big giant ring, like a medieval dungeon master (or in this case, mistress).
A key is needed to unlock our front door from the inside as well as the outside, to keep Baby Bear from running off never to be heard from again. I read too many heartbreaking stories in the news about autistic children exactly like him, who slip out of the house while their parents are distracted, only to meet tragic ends. He couldn’t let me in through the front door even if he wanted to.
After about ten minutes, he seemed satisfied that I’d completed my transformation into a total basket-case, so he pulled out the two-by-four, allowing me and the dogs back into the house.
If that wasn't enough, when Mr. Lucky came home from work shortly before midnight, I had to unlock the front door for him, because he’d locked his own keys in the car, along with his cell phone. Imagine if Baby Bear still hadn’t removed the two-by-four!
This isn’t the first time one of my little darlings has locked me out—or in. About ten years ago, Fiona locked me in her older brother’s bedroom while her dad was out on an errand. Neither she nor the Crown Prince would let me out, despite all my screaming and hammering on the door. And I didn’t have my keys with me that time, either; so even if I went out the window, I still couldn’t get back into the house. I had to wait for Mr. Lucky to return, which he did about half an hour later.
At least he didn’t lock his own keys in the car that time!
Last night, while Mr. Lucky was at work, I opened the sliding glass door so the dogs could go into the backyard to do their business. I went out there with them because otherwise, they’d head for their secret escape route under the fence. (I think they’re squeezing out under the gate, but Mr. Lucky doesn’t think that’s possible because the gate is locked both top and bottom.)
After a few moments, I noticed Baby Bear was at the door, his nose and lips pressed against the glass. Since I can’t lock the door from the outside, I thought it quite odd that he was making no attempt to come running out as he usually does. I pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge.
He must've locked it. I pointed to it and yelled at him to unlock it.
He laughed and danced. I pounded on the glass and yelled some more. He finally clicked the lock, I pulled on the door handle, and . . . it didn’t budge.
Did he unlock it, only to quickly lock it again? After more yelling and pounding on my side of the glass, and more laughing and dancing on his side, he clicked the lock again as I quickly seized the door handle and . . . it still didn’t budge.
That’s when I noticed, to my horror, that the two-by-four had been neatly placed into the runner behind the other glass panel. The little sneak had figured it out!
More yelling and pounding and pointing ensued, this time all of it directed to the two-by-four. Bear tapped his toes on it a few times, but showed no inclination to remove it. He was thoroughly enjoying this.
I was not. I was trapped in the backyard, and I was panic-stricken. It was dusk, I could hear thunder in the distance, and Mr. Lucky wasn’t due home for another four hours. My only consolation was there was nothing in the oven or on the stove.
The windows were all closed and locked from the inside. I was barefoot and wearing a tank top and very short shorts, so I wasn’t exactly dressed for scaling the six foot high wooden fence that enclosed the yard. Besides, there was nothing to boost me over but an unsturdy patio chair, and the table was too heavy to drag from the patio to the fence. The gate was secured with a padlock that required a key. But even if I did find a way out of the backyard--there was a shovel handy, so I suppose I could've dug my way out, like the dogs--I still wouldn’t be able to get in the house because the garage and front door were also locked, and my keys were inside the house.
Wouldn’t you know it? Believe it or not, I usually keep my keys with me, even around the house, for Baby Bear’s safety and security. I should probably get one of those things my father used to have, that you clip to your waistband and you pull the keys out on a chain. Or a big giant ring, like a medieval dungeon master (or in this case, mistress).
A key is needed to unlock our front door from the inside as well as the outside, to keep Baby Bear from running off never to be heard from again. I read too many heartbreaking stories in the news about autistic children exactly like him, who slip out of the house while their parents are distracted, only to meet tragic ends. He couldn’t let me in through the front door even if he wanted to.
After about ten minutes, he seemed satisfied that I’d completed my transformation into a total basket-case, so he pulled out the two-by-four, allowing me and the dogs back into the house.
If that wasn't enough, when Mr. Lucky came home from work shortly before midnight, I had to unlock the front door for him, because he’d locked his own keys in the car, along with his cell phone. Imagine if Baby Bear still hadn’t removed the two-by-four!
This isn’t the first time one of my little darlings has locked me out—or in. About ten years ago, Fiona locked me in her older brother’s bedroom while her dad was out on an errand. Neither she nor the Crown Prince would let me out, despite all my screaming and hammering on the door. And I didn’t have my keys with me that time, either; so even if I went out the window, I still couldn’t get back into the house. I had to wait for Mr. Lucky to return, which he did about half an hour later.
At least he didn’t lock his own keys in the car that time!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Baby Bear Goes Naked
The long awaited phone call finally came at about 4 pm today.
It was the school bus driver. “I need you to be out in the driveway when the bus pulls up,” she said. “He’s naked.”
I don’t think I even blinked when she made this announcement. In fact, I couldn’t have been more blasé than if she were yet another telemarketer offering to refinance my house. The only thing that surprised me was that it took the Bear this long to do it.
Almost every day he steps off the bus in his bare feet. A couple of times he was bare-chested. Once, he kept his socks and shoes on, but still managed to take off his shorts.
Around the house, it’s an ongoing battle to keep clothes on him. I’m desperately worried that when he reaches adulthood, he’s going to make the Guinness Book of World Records—for the most arrests for indecent exposure. “He’d go naked 24/7 if he could,” is a favorite catch phrase of mine.
I told Mr. Lucky to come with me. He was playing a game on the computer, and was two cannon blasts away from sinking a Spanish galleon. My bad timing may have cost him four million doubloons and a knighthood from Queen Elizabeth I. But I needed backup in case the Bear slipped my grip—which he’s done many a time—and ran streaking down the street.
The bus pulled up and I was invited to board. Baby Bear danced in the aisle as if The Price is Right announcer had just called him to come on down. All his clothes were scattered on the floor beneath several seats, and I collected them all and dressed him in the middle of the bus, while the driver told Mr. Lucky, “She’s always saying he’s going to come home naked someday!”
Fortunately there weren’t too many kids left on the bus, maybe four or five, all special needs children. One of them would have been rolling in the aisle with laughter if he hadn’t been securely strapped in his seat. I couldn’t blame him. Even I was more amused than horrified, which was out of character for me. Maybe it’s the full moon.
But I hope it doesn’t happen again. (The public nudity, not the full moon.)
It was the school bus driver. “I need you to be out in the driveway when the bus pulls up,” she said. “He’s naked.”
I don’t think I even blinked when she made this announcement. In fact, I couldn’t have been more blasé than if she were yet another telemarketer offering to refinance my house. The only thing that surprised me was that it took the Bear this long to do it.
Almost every day he steps off the bus in his bare feet. A couple of times he was bare-chested. Once, he kept his socks and shoes on, but still managed to take off his shorts.
Around the house, it’s an ongoing battle to keep clothes on him. I’m desperately worried that when he reaches adulthood, he’s going to make the Guinness Book of World Records—for the most arrests for indecent exposure. “He’d go naked 24/7 if he could,” is a favorite catch phrase of mine.
I told Mr. Lucky to come with me. He was playing a game on the computer, and was two cannon blasts away from sinking a Spanish galleon. My bad timing may have cost him four million doubloons and a knighthood from Queen Elizabeth I. But I needed backup in case the Bear slipped my grip—which he’s done many a time—and ran streaking down the street.
The bus pulled up and I was invited to board. Baby Bear danced in the aisle as if The Price is Right announcer had just called him to come on down. All his clothes were scattered on the floor beneath several seats, and I collected them all and dressed him in the middle of the bus, while the driver told Mr. Lucky, “She’s always saying he’s going to come home naked someday!”
Fortunately there weren’t too many kids left on the bus, maybe four or five, all special needs children. One of them would have been rolling in the aisle with laughter if he hadn’t been securely strapped in his seat. I couldn’t blame him. Even I was more amused than horrified, which was out of character for me. Maybe it’s the full moon.
But I hope it doesn’t happen again. (The public nudity, not the full moon.)
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