In the past, if Eli got up really early, we could bring him to our bed, dump a pile of books on the covers, and doze while Eli read. No longer. The new and improved Eli is like an octopus with eight truncheons. He flails, punching and flipping and crawling and jumping. Early morning now requires pads and a cup for my safety. The military spends a tremendous amount of money on sensors; if they could figure out how Eli can hit my crotch with unerring accuracy despite the covers, they could upgrade their missiles in very unsettling ways.

We have reached the age of “MINE!” That blanket? “MINE!” The dust bunny under the table? “MINE!” My glasses? “MINE!” The best part is that he doesn’t really know pronouns yet, so you can drive him crazy agreeing with him. “MINE!” “Yes, that’s yours.” “MINE!” “Yep, yours!” “MINE!” “YOURS!”

Then he hits you in the crotch.

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