When Motherhood Parallels Crimefighting

He comes quickly, with the impending *slap, thud, slap, thud* of swirling arms and legs barreling closer. Lip bit in concentration, the mischievous glow of his eyes lock and load onto his next target.

Nothing is safe in his path. Every room has a "hot spot". Classic pots and pans and spice cabinets in the kitchen, mess of TV cords and cable box in the family room, stairs in the hallway, crinkly papers and Daddy's deer mount in the office... The list goes on and on. "Moooommmeeee! The baby's in the trash... again! Ewww, he's eating an eggshell! What's that stuff on his hands!?" {this morning's sausage gravy, FYI}

He scales along the edges of the couch and kitchen cabinets with grace and ease. New developments have him turning to run away while belly laughing and squealing, forgetting that his legs carrying his petite 18-pound frame aren't quite on the same page as his scheming head. Slower, more deliberate steps have him getting further.

The crib, stroller and I? Yeah, we're like *this*. The crib and I have forged a deal during nap times. {Though the crib is still holding out for higher pay during the night hours.} The stroller answers the call of duty as I hang laundry on the line. Sweet deliverance.

{Surveillance of The Offender: 10 months}