Every day, around 5pm, my angelic little
pigeon-chaser becomes a satanic warrior. With a vendetta. He's
possessed and cannot be stopped.
Books, once delicately handed to me with a smile, become weapons to
throw in my face. Hands that only hours earlier, reached for me to help him down the stairs become karate choppers and food smashers and eyeball scratchers.
My
solution to this "issue" in the past has been a trip to the gym.
Because the gym has daycare. And daycare equals freedom. Until
recently. These days Archer refuses to hang with his daycare peeps.(It
may have something to do with the fact that the daycare lady is rocking her Le Peu once again. Merd.)
Instead, I get all dressed up in my thong spandex jumpsuit and
L.A. Gear high tops, pumped to work out with my PM Dawn remix music and
my three-month old Vogue (I'm a little behind) all for nothing. Because
daycare has apparently become Archer's version of hell. He clings to me
like a monkey, choking me with his death grip.
