While visiting my granparents this past week, my son received a new nickname....the Destroyer. At their house, my son pulled down, climbed on, drooled over every single thing he could get his grubby little mitts on. My grandparents are something of pack rats, so there was a lot of things that he could get into. There is a pile of magazines that sits next to my grandfather's chair (been there as long as I have been alive, I believe, with some of the same magazines) that B pulled over, every single day without fail. Multiple times a day.
At first, I was a little put off by this name. I thought, he's a baby, all babies do this. I thought, he's a boy, destruction is what boys do. I didn't want my son branded so soon as something less than perfect.
Then I played blocks with my son last night. At the age that stacking blocks and thoughtful play should begin (according to all those wonderful parenting books, of course), B was intent on destruction. I would stack the blocks, with glee and a growl, he would knock them down. I would put shaped blocks through the slots in the bucket, he would rip the lid off and dump them out. I don't know if other children do this, but B roars when he is happily playing. It's a dead throated AAAAAAHHHHHH.
I was ready to admit it, he's a destroyer. 100 percent. There's no denying it, in his mind, there is nothing more fun that junking things up, dumping things out, and knocking things over. But, he's happy. He quite happily goes through destroying everything in his path. He always has a smile on his face. I shouldn't complain, my child can keep him self entertained for a significant amount of time throwing things around. At least I know he has a promising future as a member of a demolition crew.