What a relief we didn't decide to name him Jack. That could be a little awkward, given his chosen profession. "Hi. I'm Jack, the lumberjack." Not cool. So not cool.
Magoo's latest hobby is clearing the land. Any land. Any surface he comes in contact with. Sometimes his work is slow and deliberate, individually picking each pea from his highchair tray and dropping it to the floor while staring me straight in the eyes.
Other times he opts for stealth. One minute the couch is full of neat little folded washcloths, the next — watch his hands very closely... Ta-daaaa! The couch is empty and Magoo sits grinning on a pile of fabric. Amazing!
Frequently he just goes into a swirling psychobotic frenzy of thrashing limbs, giggling as he runs from table to table in the doctor's waiting room, sweeping every magazine from every surface. The lumberjack stomps his feet and claps his hands and turns around to view his land. Then he slips on a copy of Pediatrics Today and falls on his face.
This is called a "bock," as in, "Ow! I just bocked my head on that corner."
He runs to me, his fat fingers spread far apart, the palm of his hand pressed to the spot on his head that had so recently become intimately acquainted with the speckled linoleum.
"Oh. Mom. Bock. Kissit."
He then bends in half, carefully aiming his wound toward my waiting lips. I dramatically kiss the bock, and off he runs to clear his next parcel of land/series of bookshelves. Don't they look so much better stark and empty like that?
Just don't tell the other loggers about your mamma's bock kissing. They'd never let you live that down.