I definitely belonged in the large number of children who would defy their parents and siblings while taunting, "I'm not touching you!" on repeat. Immaculate child, I was not. I'm actually pretty sure (100% sure) I did that to Chris a couple months ago. He keeps me young.
Ryan has lately shown that he is on path to follow in my footsteps. He loves to stand on our red chair while shaking his finger and chiding sternly, "No! No! No!" at the floor lamp next to the chair when he knows that I am watching. When he thinks that I am not watching, he reaches for that dangling, tempting chain to turn the lovely light on until I make my mom-presence known and he quickly plops down and claims, "Bih boh! Bih boh!" which translates to, "Sitting like a big boy," in Ryanglish. His mischievous smirk alternates with a scarily too innocent smile.
One of the other many other apples-of forbidden-from-Ryan's-hands fruit in this home is the screen door that leads to the deck. "Don't touch the screen! It could break!" comes out of my mouth probably seventeen times each hour that we are home (slight exaggeration since I don't exactly carry a clicker around documenting how monotonous I am).
Yesterday, Ryan was in his normal state of clothing (read: none) and I saw him standing right next to the screen from across the room. I waited to see if his hand was going to go up as it always does to high-five the screen, but he left the screen hanging. I started to mentally give myself a pat on the back and started to file away, "Don't touch the screen!" into the use-less-frequently arsenal of instructions with, "Don't play with the spice rack!" as I walked over to see that naked toddler. He turned his head to me and gave me that too innocent smile.
Or, more appropriately, yellow flag because I looked down to see that he had marked his territory on the deck and technically obeyed his mama by peeing through the screen.
Touché, kid. You didn't touch it.