Royce handed me a bolt today.

Not a toy bolt.

Not something from his tool set.

A real metal bolt from something inside our actual home.

He walked up smiling, holding it out like a gift, proud of himself in the way only toddlers can be. And listen, there is nothing more terrifying than a toddler proudly offering you hardware you did not knowingly give them access to.

Because it leads to one urgent question:

What did you unbolt, little boy?

Royce loves mechanical things.

Bolts, screws, lids, caps, anything with threads.

If it can be twisted, removed, or deconstructed, he is already halfway to doing it before you even notice he has wandered off.

And the wildest part is that this must be genetic.

Because Channing did the exact same thing starting as a toddler.

He got a kid’s scooter for his fourth birthday.

He used it once, maybe twice.

By day two it was in pieces on the living room floor.

The scooter was not broken.

He just needed to see how it worked.

He still does this with his own bike, scooter, and skateboard.

If something has bolts, he sees it as a puzzle waiting to be solved.

And honestly, even though it frustrates us sometimes, that same curious streak has turned into a skill.

Channing has taught himself how bikes and scooters function, and now he fixes all his friends’ bikes in the neighborhood.

He will sit outside with a toolkit, diagnosing wobbly wheels and loose handlebars like a tiny mechanic with a mission.

So now I have two small engineers in the house, one who takes things apart on purpose and one who does it accidentally while exploring the meaning of life with his tiny hands.

Moments like that always make me laugh until reality hits. And reality hit this morning.

When Royce proudly presented his gift of a random bolt, I froze mid-breath, suddenly aware that something in our home might now be one bolt away from collapse.

I found myself walking around with his bolt in my palm like a worried detective trying to match the evidence to the correct crime scene.

Top suspects include:

• my desk chair

• the shelving in the pantry

• the patio furniture he treats like a jungle gym

• something I will not discover until it collapses dramatically later

My biggest fear is the desk chair.

I can already see it. Tomorrow morning I will sit down with my water and my sketchbook, ready to draw or write, and the chair will fold instantly like I triggered a trapdoor.

And Royce will stand there, smiling proudly with another bolt in his hand like, “Mimi, I did help.”

Toddlers are wild.

Neurodivergent kids are resourceful.

And apparently my family produces tiny mechanics by default.

But honestly, moments like this are hilarious.

They remind me that my kids explore the world with curiosity, creativity, and a natural urge to figure things out, even if it means my furniture lives in danger.

Life is unpredictable.

Kids are chaos.

And I might end up on the floor tomorrow.

But at least I know exactly which little hands unscrewed my fate.