Work Text:
This is one of those things that belongs in a file.
Name: Alex Rider
Gender: Male
Age: Three
Physiological Markers: High heart rate variability, substantial startle reflex
Behaviors: Humming, counting, climbing, precision in dismantling things that are NOT toys
Notes: Prefers sharp, sudden stimuli, loud sounds and climbing things that are NOT meant to be climbed.
Reaction to lullabies: Listless
Reaction to fireworks: Immediate attention, follows trajectory until end
Reaction to household chemistry set: Delighted
Reaction to new furniture items: Climbs onto the highest possible spot
Reaction to films when explosions and gunshots sound: Exhilarated, clapping as if he’d watched an Oscar worthy film
Reaction to me when I try to be firm: Excellent at looking like a small offended adult
The little rascal is currently wheeling a toy car across the carpet, awfully close to the baby-proofed coffee table. I’m waiting for the kettle to sound as I observe the gremlin make loud noises, as if pretending the car is breaking down against the leg of the coffee table, having crashed against it.
“Car crash! Boom!” he exclaims jovially, contrasting the seriousness of the issue of a possible collision.
Just a few months ago, I had to grab him down from the roof of the house because he’d discovered he rather loved high places and loved observing from scenic spots. It was an awkward angle I had to climb to collect him, but after a stern talking to, I never saw him on the roof again - he’d been sticking to the fridge and wardrobes for now, thankfully all spaces I can easily pull him away from.
"Would you please put the wheels back, Alex?" I request, as I notice two missing wheels on his toy car after he realistically portrayed what a car crash of that magnitude would look like.
He looks up. His fine blonde hair is a static charged nest of tangles, clinging to his forehead smeared with a mysterious streak of dried strawberry jam. He turns his tiny torso around to face me, and the way he clocks onto something or someone, with his eyes locking onto a target and then his whole body twirling after, like a compass - makes the room feel like a map with a tiny spinning top in the center.
"Nah," he says with an exaggerated shoulder slouching gesture, and then, because he has quite the performer's instinct, he says, "because car crash not finish." To prove his point, he presses the model car down against the wooden floor, a few inches away from the carpeted floor - for a second battering, wheeling the remaining two wheels backwards again and again, both for friction and speed, and to get the momentum for a big crash.
I wince, because I know this is not going to end well for… the bookcase and the car it seems like, with the way he’s angled the car to go. And with that, the car zooms off of Alex’s tiny grubby hands and rockets across the floor like a tiny shuttle, slamming into the foot of the bookcase and breaks down into pieces with a loud crash, and a book comes flying down.
This is what I mean. He likes the end of things where there is a loud finish. He’s clapping now, as if the crash is something to be happy about, and I can’t help but watch him with an exasperated expression on my face - or what very well looks like concern.
I don’t know what to do at this point. From finding him up in high places to him clapping at the sound of crashes and bangs like a chaos monster… I think John and Helen have conjured a demon for a baby. They’ve conjured a demon for a baby and gone and died and made me raise the hell spawn. They’re probably laughing at me beyond the grave.
Well, good news is they’re going to see me soon - with the amount of years that have already been cut short from my life from the premature tiny heart attacks I’ve gotten observing him and his antics. I’ll meet up with them wherever they are and have a good talk with them about their responsibilities and their audacity to die without fulfilling them.
“We can't have explosions inside," I say after a long sigh, because that is true and simple. Explosions can be loud and they can be dangerous and I have spent enough time learning exactly what danger is like - especially danger of the boom variety.
"Why not?" he asks, and his question is both literal and tactical, as if he is trying to babble his way around my refusal, then he follows it up with “Alex likes when things go boom!”
I try again. "Alex likes high places, Alex likes booms, Alex likes crashes” I supply, counting off the number of weird things this three year old does on my fingers. “Alex likes dangerous things, dangerous things bad” I chide with equally childish grammar, hoping that would help the message enter his brain and he’d understand that his penchant for loud sounds and grand slams are anything but normal. I continue when I see the beastie frown and cross his arms over his chest at the word ‘bad,’ as if he’d just drowned out the rest of the conversation.
What do I do with him? Helen, if only you were here to handle YOUR child.
It’s not like I haven’t been out on a search for possible babysitters or nannies. The problem is that the babysitters take one look at the way his eyes light up around anything abrupt and decide they do not want to be responsible for the concussive joy of a small human.
It’s a running pattern: interviews, tentative smiles, the careful, slow backing away.
"He has so much energy," they say with frightened smiles, which is a euphemism for "I did not sign up for this," then "he's so curious," which translates to "I am frightened of what he will do with that curiosity."
I worry. Worry is a professional hazard. But worry has changed shape. It is less like a tight fist and guns blazing but instead a tiny growing human with a love for self-endangerment.
Funnily enough, my prayers are answered one day when a very brave university student - named Jack Starbright applies for the position, claiming she’d do anything to have a place to stay while studying for her law degree, and I decide to test her resolve.
There goes the boy on his toy car crash routine again. I’m too used to this to comment on it anymore, so I’ve taken up a spot on the sofa. I’m watching Jack as she just observes how Alex ups the ante and makes the car fly up to ‘space,’ then throws it with frightening accuracy towards the TV console, knocking down a couple of DVD boxes. Jack doesn’t say anything. She patiently puts the DVD boxes back in place and collects the broken car pieces, giving them back to him to re-assemble his car.
I’m inclined to comment - to step in and prevent him from making more of a mess for her to clean up, but instead, I choose to let her handle it. I want to see if this turns out to be another nanny that says goodbye.
Now I’m working on a report on the couch, Jack is cooking and I notice little Alex scamper after her, then repeatedly crashing his tiny body against her leg and backing up, only to crash into her legs again, with soft “oof”s and “boom”s, imitating a retreating and advancing car. The girl doesn’t do anything but rub his head playfully, but before she knows it, he’s ramping up his attacks, a full head on collision with her shoulder as he’s climbed up the kitchen top. The egg she’d placed on the counter drops down to the floor and cracks.
I sigh. Enough is enough. Some discipline is necessary here. But before I can get up, I hear her voice, and it seems like she’s finally lecturing the reckless boy. “Alex,” she sighs, “You can’t keep doing that.” And as usual, the boy responds with “why?” Because surely everyone loves a good ol’crash and boom from time to time. But his face seems to show a hint of understanding, albeit reluctant.
The brilliant girl pretends to step on the eggshell and winces in an exaggerated manner, showing pain. She pulls her leg up and backs away from the mess on the ground. “Because things break, and things can hurt,” she crouched down in front of him, gathering up the egg shells. That does the trick.
The tiniest Rider looks at her with his big doe eyes and apologises for hurting her, then he gets on his tiny knees to help her clear up the mess too. “Tissue!” He commands my way, and I’ve already gotten up, tissues and wet wipes in hand as I hand it over to little mister cleaner as he diligently wipes the ground with a very happy Jack, who’s humming to some tune only the two of them seem to know.
At that instant, I knew whole heartedly that she had reeled the little one in and owned his tiny heart. She was the perfect fit for the role of nanny in the Rider household, and I couldn’t be happier if I tried. Finally, someone I could trust to protect the best of us.
The new year rolls around and I’m intent on taking the three year old Alex down near the River Thames for the fireworks, and I take Jack along. She’s carrying the boy like it’s second nature. The both of them are startled by the sound of the fireworks starting, but then the both of them are mesmerised by the display of colors in the sky. Little Alex is clapping away, excited to be right under the source of the loud noises. The neon sparkles reflect in his wide eyes and I can’t help but smile.
Hell spawn he may be, but I’d be damned if I said I didn’t love him.