Destructo-Boy

There once was a young man who was ready to leave home. His father lovingly patted him on the back and handed him an envelope containing all the money he and his wife had put away for him over the years.

"We are so proud of you, son, and we want to give you everything we can to help you start out your adult life. But now that you are an adult, the first thing to do is pay back your debts as soon as possible."

And with that, he took the envelope, opened it and pulled out bill after bill, reciting, "This is for the dent in the car...the scrapes on the bathroom wall, the broken window...your mother's broken necklace...." He listed item after item until his son had paid him back for all the things he'd either broken or lost.

When finished, he lovingly patted his son on the back, handed him the envelope and walked away.

The bewildered boy who had been through such a change in emotions in such a short time, glanced down at the envelope to find one twenty dollar bill left for his future.

My son's alter ego is Destructo-Boy. I may have mentioned this before. It appeared when he was four-years-old and has taken over his brain. My sweet, tender-hearted little one has purposely pulled things apart, scissored up lawn chairs, exploded tubes of bathroom products, scratched walls, furniture, etc...having absolutely no reason to do so.

I like to think he has a scientific brain, with an overwhelming desire to see "what if?" "What if I stick my fork in the table and pull?" "What if I draw with permanent marker under the livingroom rug?" "What if I paint my sister's face with nail polish?"

Sometimes things happen by accident; I'll give him that. Once, as a punishment, I had him hand wash the dishes (one chore I despise). Unfortunately, the drying rack tipped over and three of my rarely-been-used wedding plates smashed on the floor. He burst into tears, and there was nothing I could do but sigh, hug him and send him on his way. It was, simply, an accident.

In fact, yesterday, with his brand new go-cart, he drove into the side of the house. Luckily, he only broke a large flower pot (one I really liked, mind you) but he was devastated and wailed uncontrollably. Again, I could only sigh, reassure him and send him on his way. Again, it was, simply, an accident.

Unconsciously, though, I was listing all the things he'd broken on purpose, including the couch cushion I had just found a few minutes before, redecorated in marker.

If he'd had any kind of inheritance, I thought, it would surely be halfway spent by now, only at age seven.