My Savage Beast

I think there's a little primitive soul in my child. And it found its way out yesterday.

tomato boy 1

I left my little troglodyte alone with a cup of tomato soup (aka to Oliver as Orange Soup and from here on out known as Orange Shrapnel ) and when I came back to the kitchen was assaulted with not just the cup in my face, (yes, my little angel threw the cup at me.... I have the photo and stained clothing to prove it.) but visually as well. Mon petit artiste had pulled a Jackson Pollock all over his high chair table, himself and a circumference wide enough to include the table, fridge, sink, counters, floor and stove. The only plane curve safe from his ejecting droplets was the ceiling. Thank God, because I'm too short to reach that.

tomato boy 2

tomato face 4 - edited

(Doesn't he look a bit possessed?!! Be afraid. Be very afraid.)

tomato face - edited

This was not my child. This was a young warrior, a minister of defense, decorated with war paint, ready to defend his land and his people (his cars and his trucks). I caught him pounding his chest a few times.


And then my little innocent angel took his artillery weapon metal cup that contained the offensive liquid missile, and while releasing a piercing shrill not unlike a primitive battle cry, flung it toward me, launching an assault of sweet tomato droplets, however offensive they truly were.

about to lamblast me with the cup

And just so you know, this all happened in a matter of 5 minutes or less. Five long minutes, long enough for Oliver to do some serious orange damage. Off to the shower he went. Not very happy I might add. He was not quite done creating his master piece.

ready for the shower