Little Lion was doing laps (racing the popular kitchen-living room-hallway-kitchen circuit) while I did dishes. Every other circle or so he stopped to root through his drawer for another measuring cup or to smack into me and giggle, as the moment warranted.

Finally, after a zillion laps, he got bored and turned his attention to the trash can. He knows it’s off-limits, and he also knows its full of yucky things, squishy things, bangy things, and generally fun things. I gave him my best “Little Lion…!” warning voice, but before I could intervene he commenced his dumpster dive. Fortunately, unless the trash can needs to be emptied anyway, he can’t usually reach anything. But he tries.

A small, pouty tantrum later, Little Lion proceeded on more laps, finally coming back around to the trash can. Again, he didn’t like being told “No,” and made it known. Wriggling free from my soapy hands he tottered to the end of the kitchen and turned to regard me for a moment. He paused, hands ready, and decided on his new course of action. He turned and banged decisively on the oven and the cupboard, moved over and banged on a couple of drawers, and proceeded down the kitchen toward me, thumping everything very methodically.

Finally he got to the trash can again–the trash can, untouched in a long train of touching. “Buh!” he said and he looked at me, one pointy finger up, asking me to reflect on his difficult situation. Could the normal rules apply when the pattern so certainly compelled him? Indeed, they could not, and he smacked the trash can.

Thankfully, I finished the dishes just then and we went to read books before things got any worse.