First Blood

Remember when I was having conniptions at the thought of having a little boy? Remember how nervous I was for the safety my house and furniture? Remember all the apron wringing? And thoughts of covering everything in my house with a protective layer of silicone? I shunned the snips, snails, and puppy dog tails theory entirely. I was convinced that little boys were, above all, destructive. With a capital D!

I have since calmed down about all that and quite enjoy the Little Man for the fun, boisterous, knocking me over with absolute waves of joy that he is. Even when his playtime tendencies lean towards smashysmashy, loudloud.

However! Smack dab in the middle of a normal afternoon, I noticed this:

One of my beloved (I'm not gonna lie- cheap) barstools. 

In pictures, it doesn't look that bad. In person? It screams from across the living room. I can hear it moaning upstairs. I'm pretty sure the second you walk into my house, the stool would be the only thing you could look at. Like a seven car pileup on the I-15, you just can't look away. Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise? License to let the rest of the kitchen go? Nobody would notice cluttered countertops over the disaster that is a gnawed barstool, riiiight?

At least, I think the stool was gnawed. It's hard to tell. To add to this, I haven't exactly caught Little Man with a stool in his mouth. They are his favorite playthings... so I'm pretty certain he's the culprit.  Whatever happened, it was bad- and most likely involved Little Man- and left pretty large chunks of my barstools missing. ***Retracting that statement... just caught him in the act; aggressively chewing away at my stools. I am right!***

... and so it begins... life with a little boy... Quick! Somebody hide the good china!