The Devil Wears Carters

I am not a superstitious person.

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?
This happened.


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