Upstairs making pizza for dinner when Freckles starts yelling.  If you have read my previous posts, my response should be obvious. What?  Stop screaming, honestly!  What is it?  Then I look down the stairs to my living room.  There is something on fire on the carpet next to the three wick candle stand.  Again, my response should be obvious. Are you kidding me? I go downstairs and look at the smoldering paper.  I look at the kids.  I go in the bathroom next to the small fire, find a cup, fill it with water and pour it on said paper.  I look back at the kids.  Monster sticks his face right next to the mess and says ‘hot?’.  I resist the urge to rub his face in the ash like you would with a dog that just messed on the carpet. I clean up the mess, still pondering how the child got the paper into the covered holder of the candle, and then out of the holder and onto the floor without burning himself.  I realize I don’t even care. Now, I used to be able to have nice things.  I didn’t ‘childproof’ my house all that much, my kids knew what stuff was not for playing with, or they learned quickly.  They may have coloured on one wall, got in trouble, didn’t do it again.  We have a 4 level split and we didn’t have babygates. While getting in trouble like most kids do, they were never…what’s the word…. desperately destructive. Until Monster.  Why?  WHY?  Why is the unexpected third child whom I love…