Before I was ever a mother, I used to have a romanticized idea of what we, human beings, at our core, were like. I thought we were loving, pure, and innocent until exposed to violent media or cruel encounters with horrible human beings. Not so. Inside my little boy lurks a Terminator, always ready to pounce.
When he's angry, he tends to scream, throw, kick or hit.
He has somehow latched on to every violent verb accessible to a toddler who does not watch TV, go to daycare, and whose parents aren't known for their cursing or fighting prowess.
Lately he has been enjoying telling stories in which at least every third word is one much like these: smash, crush, cut, crash or hit. Each time, my little barbarian emphasizes the violent verb by raising his voice, clenching his teeth, and making a large, abrupt guillotine- or sledgehammer-like gesture with his arms. The stories roll out at race car speed, so I haven't been able to capture one yet, but here is a quote that exemplifies what I'm talking about:
"I'm bad. I'm a hitting guy that has a bone, hits a tree and smash(es) it."
My little angel.
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