That being said, what is with all the throwing? Do I have a future pitcher on my hands here or is this just some sort of boy phase that Mr. Man is going through? Nothing is safe in our house, or pretty much anywhere else we go. I spend my days yelling, “Don’t throw it!”
His favorite thing to toss is any and all remotes, or as he calls them, “uh-moooote.” There seems to be nothing more satisfying than chucking a remote control to the floor, scaring everyone around with the crashing sound it makes and watching the batteries shoot out and inevitably disappear.
Apple TV remotes are good too since they are a hard (read: loud) metal on par with a throwing star. Or a dull knife. Don’t drop one on your foot. Plus there is the added bonus that they are super easy to lose and you can’t turn that little box on without it.
How about food? Fair game. My kitchen floor is disgusting, no matter how much I sweep, vacuum and mop. One meal and it looks and feels like the floor at a movie theater. No matter how many times I yell my catch phrase (Don’t throw it, in case you forgot) everything is whipped overboard, from high chair to tile. Nothing like a nice juicy slice of watermelon being slapped down with a squish next to your feet.
Any time Little Miss is really invested in a toy, which I look at as a rare godsend, Mr. Man is sure to run over, steal it and toss it. Every time. Those meticulously arranged Little People princesses? Lets just grab Snow White and throw her at to TV. Quiet, independent play turns into crying, me yelling and time out.
Bath toys. Baby pool toys. Shoes in the car. Crayons. Sippy cup. Anything he can reach or hold while riding in the stroller. The paci. I should have a six-pack thanks to all the bending I do to pick things up. Maybe I should retrieve the thrown items by doing a nice deep squat and work on… whatever it is that squats are supposed to shape.
Who am I kidding? I hate exercising and I am exhausted. If he throws it, he can go pick it up.