I guess we’re in the mischief phase now. That phase where the innocent boy morphs into one who looks for trouble at every turn. A boy who hunts for the most unsteady item on which to climb. And then stands — tippy toes — on said item while reaching for the one thing he is not supposed to touch.

A boy who has decided that the best thing about dinner is finding creative ways to eat his food, like using his sippy cup as a fork or his cracker as a spoon. A boy who, if given the chance, would head-butt everyone and everything. A boy who surreptitiously collects his mom’s or dad’s things (anything, doesn’t matter) and then hides them under, on or behind the sofa; in the trash can; on the basement stairs.

A boy who screams all the time. OK, scratch that: We’ve been there for a long time.

But the other stuff is fairly new or, at least, new in its frequency and delight. And it doesn’t stop. It’s all mischief, all the time around here. You may think I am kidding. I am not. You may think I am exaggerating. I am not.

OK, maybe just a little. But only a little.

And now a quick shift: We’re heading to Long Island this afternoon. With any luck, we’ll miss the bulk of the traffic and Conal will sleep for most of the trip. That’s what I’m hoping for. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!