It's been coming on for a while now.

The signs were there, but we pushed them aside, foolishly saying "it's just this one time, no biggie" (I don't actually believe I've ever said "no biggie"... not only do I sound just plain silly saying that type of thing, but I also tend to freak out and/or overreact to virtually everything that ever happens... I'm high strung, in case you haven't figured it out yet...).

The writing on the wall can be ignored no longer, however. There is a destructive force at work here in Slushville. He bringith a plague upon our house. And his name is Hatchling.

I'm sure you all remember this incident. It was just a taste, a mere sampling of what was to come. Since then,

• the toybox lid has been broken (for the third time, if memory serves correctly)
  
• the toy computer he got for Christmas lasted only one day before wires were hanging out
  
• The door to the Ark he got for Christmas, broken.
  
• The crocs I bought him (my one venture into purchasing anything fashionable for him), broken
  
• The arm of one my Mitford snowman figurines, devastatingly, heartbreakingly broken
  
• A basket, broken
  
• A storage bin for his room, broken
  
• The month old, one hundred dollar remote for our gas logs, broken (though it still works if you aim it upside down and from a foot away, which pretty much negates the whole reason we have the remote...)

And the list goes on. Today, he yanked down one of the sailboat pictures I painted for his room. Recently, he took a silver plastic wrench and used it to "draw" all over every white door in his room (there are four). When he showed me the silver scribbles, he said "don't worry Mommy, you paint it." And then my head exploded...

The damage he does to himself is just as awful. Presently, he has a scrape/bruise all across his back where he first tried to do a back flip either in to or out of his toybox (wood is not so cushy, my child) and then he fell down the garage stairs and scraped it in the exact same place. It looks like we beat the poor tyke. I'm afraid he gets my bruising ability, and I look like a leukemia patient most of the time.

I'm worried he will go barreling through his giant picture windows one of these days. How hard is that glass? His room is on the second floor, and I don't think those little white strips that make the windows look like they have individual panes are going to hold his fat little body in place for long. Seriously, when he is quiet up there for too long, I start imaging him lying in a heap in our side yard.

The scary thing is the glee with which he informs us of his transgressions. Either he totally doesn't get that breaking things is bad (hard to believe considering the time in the corner he has spent thinking about his actions) or he is a complete sociopath and feels no remorse for what he does.

And I wonder to myself, how long before he starts setting small fires in his bedroom?