This photo, which should be captioned "Hmmm...What can I get into today?", pretty much summarizes Fraser's entire approach to life right now. If there is any mischief to get into Fraser will find it, execute it with toddler enthusiasm and, without fail, blame the resulting chaos on his brother or the dogs.


Witness Exhibit 1: a photo of poor Dharma after Fraser decided to spit milk all over her head during breakfast this morning. Of course he chose to do this only two days after I managed to give the stinky dog a bath, and now her head kind of smells like spoiled milk, no matter how many time I wipe her down. Notice that the milk shower did not stop Dharma from standing directly under Fraser in the hopes of acquiring some of his breakfast, which he was more than happy to provide.

Exhibit 2: Fraser in his milk covered pajamas, on his milk covered chair, next to our milk covered dog. The mat on the floor is supposed to protect the floor from any spills. Clearly this was not designed by anyone who has actually fed a toddler before, as toddlers do not so much "spill" beverages or "drop" food" as wildly fling both willy nilly about the room until your walls, ceiling, floor and dog resemble a Jackson Pollock exhibit.

And finally, Exhibit 3: After I cleaned Fraser off and released him into the living room he immediately found, cornered, and squashed our long suffering cat, Brok. Brok is, in fact, so abused at this point that he did not even protest when Fraser body slammed him and then pretended to nap on him. Brok's one feeble "Meow" was met with disdain when Fraser picked up his head long enough to say "Shhhhh" (which actually sounds like snoring the way Fraser does it) and then lie back down.

Please note that this is only the trouble that Fraser was able to get into before 8:00 in the morning. Let us say nothing of the small flood in the kitchen, holding Hammie's feet to swing him in his swing, attempting to eat a handful of cat treats, or stuffing the truck's tailpipe full of gravel. And he isn't even two yet. God give me strength, and bourbon.

And where was Hammie during all this? My immobile little angel was lying happily on his playmat or sitting quietly in his swing, observing his brother's antics. I choose to think that his thought process was something like "Oh look, mommy is unhappy when Fraser spits milk on the dog. I must make a mental note not to project any substances onto the pets." Sure, it's possible he actually planning how he can outdo Fraser in the horrible-evil-mischief-making-department, but I like my version a lot better.