He falls off his changing table.

He routinely scootches himself underneath the coffee table, wedges himself in, and then repeatedly bangs his head on it until I come rescue him.

At which time, he immediately scootches back underneath.

He puts everything and anything in his mouth. Bugs, crumbs, cat hair, cat tail (fauna, not flora), sister's hair, any part of Mama he can possibly reach, more bugs, dirt, little pieces of scrap anything on the floor, etc.

He grins at strangers. Even the really creepy, intense women who stand too close in the supermarket line and smell like old cat food.

He is happy - possibly even ecstatic - to sit in his own waste for way, way longer than I could do it.

He eats pureed chicken.

He lunges toward the floor anytime he's on my lap and he thinks I might be distracted.

He knocks over his sister's block towers.

He drools on my fashion-intensive brother-in-law's clothes.

He waits until Mama has a migraine before figuring out where the pots and pans are in the kitchen.

He has a tantrum if Daddy drinks a beer in front of him and doesn't offer to share.

He scootches back under the table.

He laughs - full, loud, belly laughs - when he hears someone cough loudly. He guffaws until he gasps for breath when he hears someone vomit.

He sits directly atop his own testicles. Often, bounces. Without a twinge or flinch.

And so on.

*WHY* do these critters survive their first year? (Aside from the fact that I would remove my own arm with a spoon if it would somehow help him.)