Time for a little "Grant" update...

Recently, after a long night of studying in preparation for the impending doom that is "finals week," I climbed into our bed to find that Emily, in anticipation of her workday, was just getting out of it. The bumbling, stumbling, crashing, and mashing that resulted must have been at a higher volume than we tried to keep it, because Grant woke up screaming. Still being in more of a diet coke-induced state of wired mental readiness than one conducive to long winter's naps, I got back out of bed to try and calm him down.

Beelzebub wouldn't have it.

Most of you know that Grant's tantrums – resulting from the stubborn [and often violent] will that, once necessary for his little 1 pound self to survive, remains with us in superfluousness - can reach "Katrina" proportions. This one, however, reached new and lofty heights of obstinate gunpowderousness.

Daddy tried everything to tame the Beast - we read a book, we snuggled the duckie, we sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" [over and over], we rocked in the rocking chair, I laid him down in his bed, then my bed - still, the devil, in his attempt to lead my posterity astray, would not be cast out.

Finally, I was forced to play my trump card. I gathered up all our snuggly blankets and stuffed duckies, laid out a cornucopious "altar of rest" in the middle of the family room floor, and popped in Grant's favorite Charlie Brown Christmas dvd. It was a Christmas miracle - that blessed disc of "salve for the toddler soul" worked its magic! Grant was soon fast asleep on the pillow at my side.

After long internal deliberation which concluded with the assessment that Grant was indeed out for the count, I settled in to enjoy the reward that, wrested by an early morning of paternal sacrifice, was surely mine.

My peace, however, did not last. About an hour later [6 am], I awoke suddenly to find that Grant had either been translated [a doubtful event, due to the taint left on his soul by his recent commiserations with the Dark One] or - unencumbered by the fetters of crib-dorming that normally abscondated toddler wanderlust - had smuggled off in search of things more entertaining than sleep.

I freaked.

Groping about in the pre-dawn darkness, I finally came upon the still form of the suspect in question. I found him, sprawled like a chalk outline, in the middle of the family room floor. I had to get right down in his morning-breath-face to determine whether he was asleep or awake.

Status: sleeping.

As my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, it started to become apparent that Grant's face had curiously morphed into the textured surface of one of those giant 8th grade social studies chalk board maps - the kind with the little bumpy mountain ranges that we all wanted to take home and drive our matchbox trucks on.

Remembering that Grant had recently apprehended a new awareness of things going on in his diapers - as well as a corresponding tendency to investigate all the rumbling tectonic activity that occurs down there - I panicked. The stuff on his face...it couldn't be…poop, could it?!

I finally mustered up the courage to test the odor of the substance, and found, to my relief, that it reeked of "Hersheys" [the Pennsylvania kind, not the...other stuff].

Then it dawned on me. Grant often sits on my lap when I sit at my computer desk and work on my homework. As one who regularly occupies that lucky perch, he knows that I keep in my desk drawer, for sweet-tooth emergencies, an extra large dark chocolate bar [the size that cost about $5].

Well, I had been burgled.

Upon further investigation, I found that our nimble little cat burglar was not able to delay the gratification that, as a result of the victorious outcome of his nefarious efforts, he surely felt was his due. Rather than horde his spoils, our culprit immediately partook. So much chocolate, however, must have induced a sugar/cocoa coma before he could totally consume it, because I found most of the "Hershey brick" to not have been ingested, but rather to have melted all over his hands, his chest, his face, his neck, the back of his neck, his ear holes, his hair, his pajamas, our blankets, and the floor. Our family room had become a chocolate river delta.

So much for covering up the crime...