Nothing can stop the queen. Our 20-month-old Queen. The Queen of Destruction.
Books fresh from the publisher are thrown to the floor and stomped on. Toys are hurled across the room to test flightworthiness.
One clock radio was so angry at its mistreatment, that it seeks revenge by playing static at odd hours of the night. The royal garbage chute becomes its final sanctuary. The replacement clock radio fails to survive much longer as the Queen removes a side panel and permanently disables the timepiece.
When the Queen is hungry, she opens the bi-fold pantry doors of her castle in search of culinary pleasures. Packaging of cheese crackers, pretzels and even apple sauce cannot stop her dexterous fingers and strong arms. Dry rice sometimes catches her favor. But duck if nothing suits this Queen’s fancy. Packages of cereal, soup and Mac & Cheese will fly off the shelves and into the heads of her loyal subjects. Beware the displeased Queen.
Sometimes, the pantry fails to suffice. She toddles over to the coffee table and with huge sweeps of her royal arms, knocks everything to the floor. More children’s books, water bottles, everything. Then her royal majesty climbs up on her throne, which is pressed against the kitchen island and starts rummaging. Plastic cereal bins are raided, then thrown to the floor in disgust. Mail is pilfered. The queen mum’s purse is savaged for makeup.
Ah, a permanent ink Sharpie. Royal makeup for the Queen’s fair skin. Burt’s Bees foot salve for her royal blond locks.
Oh look, the Queen mum’s three-month-old driving binoculars. They displease me. I will break them. Again.
And finally, the royal scepter. An 8-inch long knife. Bow Queen dad as I raise my fair blade to knight you. Or as my son would tell you as we read Alice in Wonderland, “Off with his head!”