He's darling and helpful and bright and literary and hard-working and very often a joy.
He also smashes his sister behind the door so hard that the hinges rip out of the wall, threatens her with glass bottles, and frightens me.
Did I mention the time he started a fire in the upstairs bathroom?
Or the time he jumped into the driver's seat of my parent's van and rolled it into the garage wall?
Or casually, when passing by, flicked the "Go" button on Grandpa's power chair, sending Grandpa careening off the dock and (thank God) onto the dock below it where he screeched to a stop on my leg, pinching me between the chair and a sailboat, that (thank God again) was moored tightly, else I and Gpa and chair would have gone over, me at the bottom?
Or the whole series of finding stinky little jars of pee stashed around the house?
Or the run of pants-wetting?
Or the sleep-walking out of the house?
Or the stealing?
Or the time he asked to use the bathroom at the lab and shortly afterwards the key to The. Very. Important. Case. was discovered missing? And he pretended that the key that looked exactly like the missing key and that was found in his pocket was one from home?
Or the time he turned off all the lights and displays in the museum?
And there are so many more . . .