I think I may have mentioned in the past that George can be a bad, bad, bad little boy. He ignores direct commands and often smiles in response to scolding. He gets into EVERYTHING and has recently targeted anything that Eleanor considers “special to her.”

I can’t even tell you how many times I had to look for a little plastic raccoon from her Disney Princess game today (Side note: Will someone please let me know which princess had a raccoon familiar? Maybe Snow White during her sojourn in the woods?) George kept grabbing it and running away. I thought Eleanor might have a nervous breakdown the third time it happened. And I thought I might have a nervous breakdown if I overheard just one more occurrence of evil giggling in response to her wails of despair.

Last Sunday when I picked up my three from the kids’ gym at the YMCA, I was informed by a woman on duty that George was cute, but he was “a handful.” Oh really – ya’ think? Exactly why am I going to the gym on a Sunday? Because they offer two hours of FREE CHILDCARE for my devil spawn son.

Okay, okay – he’s not that bad. But he really is exhausting. I don’t have to get into the screaming (it’s been well covered here I think), the intensity that could shatter glass through vibration alone, or the irrational need to finish every sentence no matter what catastrophe just occurred (“George – stop screaming – you can tell me about your Spiderman bandaid AFTER I put out the grease fire.”) And the naughtiness that started developing last year has now come to full fruition. He’s officially a bad, bad, bad little boy. Even if he is cute.

And unlike his older brother, he is an instant acolyte to any older boy who crosses his path. Luckily, we have a lot of good kids on our block. But I’m sorry – four year olds are not supposed to roam the neighborhood at will. Especially not on a scooter.

The scooter obsession (and yes – it really is an obsession, as part and parcel of the intensity that I often think will cause him to burst into flames right before my eyes) started last year when he was three. We got them all scooters in the Spring. And while Oliver and Eleanor liked them well enough, George made it his mission to ride a scooter as well as the seven year olds streaking past our door on their way down the hill. And he actually did it. He was dedicated. He practiced and practiced and by the end of the month could speed down our hill and make the hairpin turn to continue to the end of the cul de sac. It was pretty impressive.

It was also annoying. While his obsessive streak helped him do something that we would never have thought possible, it also guaranteed a constant stream of requests, pleas, demands to “go play scootering.” But it appears that this is just the way George (literally) rolls. It’s in or out, all or nothing, do or die.

Of course it’s now freezing outside so we’re not using the scooters much anymore. So all addictive behaviors are now focused on indoor play. For a while it was painting, which while preferable to me, added even more paper to the already out of control pile of his “workings.” Then there were the Uno cards (which he calls “Oh No” cards) that he insisted on strewing all over the floors of every room. And most recently we’ve had had to contend with colored pencils that he drags everywhere. I finally convinced him to carry them in a bag after describing gruesome scenarios involving falling, tender flesh and sharp objects. But seriously – colored pencils? He’s so weird…

The only thing that will ever trump his predilection for hoarding random objects of interest is his new passion for games. And I don’t mean Candy Land (although he’s driven me nuts with other board games in the past). It started with Chris’ iPhone. My husband doesn’t always have much foresight when it comes to entertaining his children. Letting George play a game on his phone may have seemed like an easy way to stop the screaming, but it also unleashed a whole new brand of crazy. He would never have done such a thing if he thought he’d be spending entire weekends hiding from a mini-tyrant who won’t stop asking, “Daddy – can I play games on your phone? Daddy – can I play games on your phone? Daddy – can I play games on your phone? Daddy – can I…” George is relentless.

We own a Wii that I got for Chris as an anniversary gift a couple of years ago. But it quickly disappeared to a high shelf after George jammed it with pennies and it had to be sent out for repairs. It was then only taken down when the children were in bed for the night, and I don’t think I had ever even tried to turn it on. Recently though, the son of a friend has become rather obsessed (in a George kind of way) with Wii games. I decided to learn how to set it up so that I could provide entertainment for him when he was visiting. And of course, the other kids loved it and wanted to play too.

But no one ever loves anything as much as George loves things. And he LOVES the Wii. He doesn’t really know how to do everything all on his own, but for his age and minimal exposure to technology, he’s learning fast. There have been a few times that he’s navigated through menus I didn’t know existed. I did say that he was dedicated…

So George has a new addiction. And “Daddy – can I play games on your phone,” has been replaced by, “Can I play WEED? Let’s play WEED. I want to play WEED!” Yeah – no matter how many times I correct him, he insists on calling the Wii, “the Weed.” Which makes for many “just move along quickly and don’t make eye contact with anyone” moments when Eleanor selects public places to announce “George REALLY likes Weed.“

I expect that George will always be driving me crazy with something…but I do admire his enthusiasm and general stick-to-it-iveness. He knows what he wants and he goes for it. It makes me think that almost anything is possible if you really want it enough. If you’re willing to put your whole self into attaining a goal. If you have the confidence to really believe that you can make things happen. This is a quality that I should try to cultivate in myself.

So as much as I may want to lock him in his room or spank him or just sit on him to keep him from wreaking any further havoc on the world at large, I just can’t help but be a little dazzled by my incandescent blaze of a boy. He’s a handful – yes. And he may even be the death of me. But after all all of the empty threats, reasoning, yelling, excessive punishments, begging…I usually just end up grabbing him and covering his impish smile with as many kisses as he’ll endure. Because as bad as he can be – he really is DAMN cute.

It was very apparent soon after my son George was born that he was a character. An observation that continues to be communicated to us by friends and strangers alike. I’m not sure what it is though… I mean, he’s a normal little boy. He has all the same likes and dislikes typical to other little boys his age. He looks normal enough – no unique physical traits to set him apart from the rest. And if anything, he strives to be like the older boys who serve as role models in our neighborhood. So why is he always labeled “the little character?”

I’ve given it a lot of thought and have come up with a few reasons. First – he’s on the small side. He also has a little voice, so the general perception of him is “little guy.” Then as if to make up for his diminutive size, he’s kind of loud. Everything he says seems to register at several decibels higher than it needs to be. So it often sounds as if he’s yelling – usually about something you’d rather he not broadcast in public.

Again – neither of these traits are all that unusual for four year old boys. But I think the clincher is his dramatic flair and pronounced air of self importance. There have been numerous blog posts here dedicated to my children’s quirks, and I’ve definitely talked about how George is a screamer. And I don’t mean a shrieky “eek! I saw a mouse!” kind of screamer…I mean a wide eyed, hell to pay, berserker kind of screamer. I really should capture this with the video camera sometime as it’s quite a show. You can literally see the steam coming out of his ears and feel the vibration of his head starting to explode. He is intense.

If it wasn’t so funny to watch it would probably scare us. It also tends to be rather short lived since like other preschoolers, he can alter his mood on a dime. And he never actually hurts anyone or breaks anything, so we’re inclined to just keep an eye on it, but not worry overly much.

One of the everyday things that can set him off is being interrupted while he’s trying to talk. And since he has a motor mouth twin sister who demands an ungodly amount of spotlight time, this tends to happen about one hundred times a day. Usually I can diffuse it by enforcing turn taking (letting George finish what he was saying first of course). But I cringe to think of the wrath that would ensue without swift intervention.

I can’t blame him for taking himself so seriously because he comes by that honestly. I have needed to get over myself already since birth, so I do understand how he feels. And his father is a pretty intense guy, so I think we unwittingly created a monster with our genetic contributions. A perfect storm of DNA that resulted in a four year old George Jefferson strutting around my living room.

Oh my George… I’m so crazy about that little nut. He cracks me up every day with the way he looks at life. He really is a little dictator at heart – he wants to run the show. And everything he does sounds SO important.

All children mix up syntax and use the wrong words as they acquire language and communication skills. But George makes everything sound as lofty and important as he feels. Back when they were toddlers, I tried to teach my kids that instead of just throwing tantrums, they should tell me if they need some attention. George still incorporates this into his meltdowns. Long after I think the issue should have been resolved and tears dried, he will demand that I give him more. He doesn’t just say, “Mommy, come downstairs. I want some attention.” No…that would sound like he was asking rather than directing. He has to exclaim, “MOMMY! Come HERE! I will take my attention DOWNstairs.” Well okay then…

One of my favorite Georgeisms started last month when he began calling the art projects he brought home from preschool his “workings.” How great is that? Like he’s one of the old masters – an artiste. And I can’t get rid of ANY of his workings. Not even a single crayon slash on a piece of paper. Oh no! He likes to lay them all out on the floor and admire them, “Mommy – can I see my workings?” He needs space to stand back and observe. Putting them away before he’s done with the viewing is frowned upon. He takes great pride in his glue and glitter creations.

What inspired me to write about George today though – after what could be considered my longest dry spell of writing attempts to date – was his presumptuous acquisition of an entire DC neighborhood. After picking up the twins at preschool, I planned to take them to my high school’s annual Esprit de Noel (or holiday bazaar). Since none of that would mean anything to them, I just said that I was taking them into the city to get a treat and see some fun things. Eleanor asked where we were going and without thinking much of it I said, “Georgetown.” In pleasure and awe, George asked, “MY town?” To which I replied, “yes George – as soon as we get there, I’m sure it will be.”