Lately I have taken to hanging around my sister's house for days at a time, mainly because the heat is more bearable at their living room where I camp out when I'm there. In my own apartment it's a toss between an open-air sauna (if there is ever such a thing) and a brick oven. Sometimes I'm tempted to sprinkle quickmelt cheese on myself to see if I can be a baked good without tasting so salty from all the sweat. I know, it's gross but this heat is gross.
Hanging out here means hanging out with Joaquin, who's now two and a half and really really terrible at times. If he's happy he's a hoot, but even then you have to watch out when he's too happy because he tends to jump a lot and most of the time he'd land on some vulnerable part of your body, mainly the boobs. Even if my eyes are watering from the pain I manage to hold out on the bloody screams, because he mistakes those for cries of joy and ecstacy and would repeat the action until someone takes him off me.
To be fair, he does it to everyone.
When he wakes up at the wrong side of the bed he would swat anyone who attempts to speak to him. He shouts a lot too, and I don't know how parents do it, because when I can't take it anymore I shout at him too. I'm not proud of it, but sometimes he shuts up and says "Sorry, don't be mad." So I think I'm doing the right thing.
He talks a lot but I only understand about half of it, and he's fairly articulate. But there are times I know this conversation takes place, he just can't say it the right way:
Me: Why don't you play in the other room?
Him: Why don't you burn in hell?
(Actual conversation between Mom and Stewie, Family Guy)
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