Maked! Me Maked!

In which I explain why that one last teeny tiny chapter is not yet written, but do not discuss writing at all.

In my efforts to preserve my free and nap time for writing, I will admit that I try to get many things done while pretending to play with Captain Destructo. The poor kid thinks visiting the meat counter at the grocery store is a play date.

He's outwitted me now though. He's figured out how to destroy diapers.

Every time I turn my back,* he strips, rips the tape right off the diaper (rendering it useless), kicks it off, and runs through the house screaming, "Maked! Me maked!" and cackling insanely. He is not potty-trained. I have no choice but to chase him, which delights him no end. Then, when I go to grab a new diaper, he takes off again, reaches onto the countertop and swipes anything he can reach to the floor (today's count: two tomatoes, one paring knife, a pot full of water, and my orange juice). We wrestle. I win, because I am not afraid to throw a leg over him, carefully pinning him to the ground while I re-diaper him.

"No naked," I tell him.

"No maked," he says contritely. "Socks off?"

"Yes, you may take your socks off."

I return to my task. Fifteen second pass and I hear, "Socks off. Giggle, giggle, giggle, SSQQUUIT.** Patter patter patter. Me maked!"

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I fear the only possible end to this madness is that I lose it entirely and join him.

* And by "turn my back" I mean cast my eyes aside from him for two seconds; it's not like I ever leave him alone.
** Yes, that is the sound diaper tape makes when ripping off.