So I disappeared off the face of the earth for a week.  Why, do you say?  According to the ultrasound tech, I have more Pee Pee Teepees in my future.  Isn't it wonderful? 

Yes, it is.  A week later.  Perhaps the timing was just bad when I got the news.  When we got the brand new ultrasound technician who probably would have had difficulty finding his own ass with both hands let alone the baby's ass, Derek forgot to bring The Boy's books into the room and The Boy spent 1 1/2 hours screaming maniacally, climbing under the ultrasound machine trying to unplug it because there was nothing else to do.  God forbid his father miss anything so he refused to take him outside.  Instead he kept a firm hand on The Boy's leg and let him flail on the ground.  Did I mention that we were there for an hour and a half?

I'll confess.  I didn't want a boy.  I didn't want to say it out loud because I never wanted a child to think that he was unwanted.  Then I realized that it was a boy and who cares if he knew that I wanted a girl instead.  What with boys always being so feeling and caring and all. 

The problem is, I didn't want a girl, I just didn't want another boy.  For six months I have been pulling my hair out on a daily basis.  He is much smarter than me, much faster than me and much more destructive than me.  Last night I laid on the couch and listen to his father yell at him (which he NEVER does) about how he was not allowed to play with the knives in the kitchen.  I guess he found the knives on the counter after he took everything out of the silverware drawer.  The contents of which he dropped piece by piece on the floor.  Which may or may not have been after he opened all the mail, unfolded all of the laundry, up-ended the trash can or ate one of his shoes.  But it happened most definitely after he reprogrammed my cell phone ring to "when the saints go marching in," tried unsuccessfully to drop Westbrook from my fanasty football team, dumped the cabinet with diapers in the middle of the floor, erased my show from TiVo and dumped out all of his baby wash into the tub.  I would say that the knife incident was Dad's fault since he left the stool in the kitchen but it's not like The Boy wouldn't have found a chair (or a box or laundry basket or table) to drag into the kitchen anyway.

You are thinking, why don't you just close off the kitchen?  We do, but invariably (and I know this is going to sound so horribly unreasonable) someone actually needs to eat or drink something and then The Boy is doing the low-crawl behind you when you least expect it.  You leave, not realizing that you have brought the lion into the pasture full of sheep.  You turn the light out and hear nothing.  It's only when you realize that you hear nothing everywhere else in the house that there is a problem.  You return to the complete darkness, flip on the light switch to find the boy trying to climb into the dishwasher. 

I know it's as much about personality as it is gender, but here is your heads up, internet.  If I end up with another child with even half the energy this one has, you'll see me on the "where does depression hurt" commercials before you know it.  That commercial or the one for the nice mental hospital up the street with the comfy-looking padded walls. 

Gotta run.  The Boy is trying to move the dining room table.  The destination, only known within that twisted mind of his.  I can't imagine what would happen if I let him have sugar once in a while.