The Devil Wears Carters
I do not freak out if I walk under a ladder or have a black cat cross my path.
I have enough real things to worry about like will Big E ever be tall enough to ride Space Mountain or will Little E stop eating tooth brushes.
This afternoon we were packing up to head out to a play date. I finished stocking up the diaper bag, grabbed the Yoys, and headed out to the car.
I noticed as I was buckling Little E into his seat, he had smuggled some plastic colored number magnets out to the car. I tried to pry them out of his hands. He put the death grip on them. I relented. It was only a five minute car drive, hopeful he wouldn't chew on them and swallow magnets.
Once we arrived, I again tried to pull the three magnets out of Little E's pudgy hands.
I wrestled them free, for a brief moment. When I looked down at them, I noticed something odd and bone chilling.
My sweet Little E had pulled three number six magnets off the fridge. Little E had morphed into Satan's messenger.
What in the hell? Literally. Was Little E trying to tell me something?
Should I rename him Damien?
Am I the only one that thinks this is a little bizarre?