Living Under A Tsar.

My 15 month old is the youngest tsar in the history of the world. Don't look up whether or not this is true because I didn't and I wouldn't doubt if in the world's history there existed a baby tsar who came to power courtesy of a loose icicle that got his dad. I just don't want to hear it and blow this amazing analogy, ok?

We are moving in again and for several days our fabulously remodeled house was littered with half-opened boxes full of things babies shouldn't touch. My little tsar stumbled from box to box, destroying everything in his path, to reach the baubles that were not his own.

Nothing could stop him. Not baby gates, dogs, or my stern, "No!" and I am convinced the vodka made him bold.

When he heard no, he looked at me with utter contempt, pointed at my face like he'd identified a counterrevolutionary for the firing squad, and screamed in drunken gibberish, "How dare you speak to me in that tone!? You are a laborer and I am a little prince. Pick me up and carry me to my toys!"

Today, being the simple-minded peasant that I am, I forgot his cracker and experienced wrath that only a dictator knows how to dole out. We had to leave the store as fast as possible lest he tip over his mom-drawn carriage.

Yesterday, I rounded a corner just in time to see him casually flip off the lid of an open paint can and pull out the paint-soaked brush. "Lady," he said, "I really shouldn't be tarnishing my royal threads. Are you going to stop me?" I dove. He laughed.

The good news is that all tsars get overthrown. It's the way of the world and I just have to wait for my moment to revolt!