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Stop Slamming Your Fingers in the Nemo Phone

I can turn just about anything into a metaphor these days. My kids make it way too easy. Besides that, blogging does something to you. It makes your brain go into overdrive, analyzing every small moment and asking WHY?

Magoo has developed a habit of squishing his fingers into small spaces, screaming like a banshee and not letting anyone near him to help. Sometimes he puts his fingers under a book or a board full of rusty nails he's been playing with, then stands on the board, tries to pull his fingers out and can't. He then pushes down harder with his feet, further squishing his fingers, screams louder, stomps harder and repeats.

Lately I've been trying to keep the boards full of rusty nails in one of the higher kitchen cupboards and the step stool out of the kitchen altogether. So now he turns to his toys as a source of self-sabotage.

He shuts his fingers in his Nemo flip phone, holds it tightly closed, screams like his sister has been looking at him too long with her laser vision and stares accusingly at me through tear-filled eyes.

Me: Dude. Let go of the phone.

Magoo: Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. AAAAHHHHHHHH!

Me: Put down the phone.

Magoo: [crying so hard that his breathing appears to have stopped]

Me: Dude. Let go. Give me the phone. [trying to wrestle it from him]

Magoo: Ah. Waaahhhhh! AAA-So-Help-Me-I'll-Never-Forgive-You-As-Long-As-I-Live-For-Doing-Me-This-Great-Harm-And-Quit-Calling-Me-DUDE I'm-Your-Own-Flesh-And-Blood-AAAHHHHHHH!

Eventually I wrench the phone from his grasp, toss it over my shoulder and attempt to console him.

When he's happily running off to find a way to break apart the cement footings of our house one particle at a time, I console myself with a piece of cold pizza and a fudgesicle. Then I look accusingly at my never narrowing mid-section and say with my mouth full, "Why can't I ever lose this baby fat?"

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