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They will walk up to other kids-most times their own blood relatives-and violently attack them. Biting, whacking, kicking and screaming.

They will take sharp toys and jab them into the face of the family dog.

They will grab the dog's tail and try to yank it off.

They will lie about anything and everything all the fucking time-like Richard Nixon on crack. Odds are if you have kids what you hear all day every single day is some version of this: I didn't break that I didn't hide those I didn't shit my pants I didn't piss in the corner I would never ever, Mom! he's hitting me again, Dad! she's looking at me Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow Ow and so on and so forth and blubbedy blubbedy blah blah blah.

At some point in every day that passes, you will also witness many of these lovely and memorable moments:

Amazing little Ashley-dressed in her diminutive Vera Wang dress, accented by her Kenneth Cole kid patent leather shoes and the Paul Labrecque Salon tiny highlights in her hair-will yank the largest snottiest green snot out of her tiny evil nostril and then calmly deposit the pulsing glob of mucus into her angry mini-mouth. And then consider the taste as if she were consuming a dollop of the world's finest French wine.

Joyous bundle Joshua-such a tough little tot in his tiny Wrangler blue jeans and his lit-at-the-heels Nike King James kicks will offer up his impossibly angelic, heart-melting Hebrew smile mere moments before whacking the new baby kitten across its whiskered fluffy face with a hefty plastic baseball bat. His only regret? That the baseball bat wasn't made of wood. Or better yet-aluminum.

Cute and yummy Chase-sporting his Baby Gap khakis and his color-coded Baby Gap oxford blue polo-looking so much like his tall, preppy trust fund-encrusted papa-right down to the barely there slivers of comb-over hair-will suddenly stop socializing and stand in the middle of the living room with a strange, fuzzy focus ambling across his cute-as-a-button face. Then-a mere five or seven seconds later-the stench of crap and an acrid plume of urine will fill the room. Yes. He has in fact laid a giant Baby Gap load-along with enough piss to jam a juice box-into his don't I look like my dad one-hundred-and-fifty-five-dollar pants.

Elusive and oh such a handful Elizabeth-who refuses to keep her clothes on!-runs naked through the house screaming gay little screams and stopping only to roll around the floor so free and unashamed and full of boundless expressive energy-like a newly minted dance member of a jazzercise class she rambles from room to room until she stops to eat a bite of her dinner-look how she uses her fork-just like a grown-up little girl-and everyone is smiling at what a character she is-until she turns to her baby brother and stabs him in the head.

Stabbing screaming puking farting pissing shitting crying complaining whining moaning kicking angry goddam jellyfish.

That's right. Jellyfish. It may be the most inhumane trick they can pull out of their awful, incredible bag of tricky little tricks: The Jellyfish Move.

Those dirty filthy spineless mini-criminals.

The Jellyfish Move is a gift given only to the very small.

A true super-power that God imbues them with-apparently as a self-defense mechanism to avoid being captured and killed by angry parents and other adults whose patience has been worn down to the very bare barren marrow of their giant bones.

After the stabbing or the spilling or the screaming or the crying or all four combined into one elongated and loud private or public tantrum they run away on their vicious pudgy legs and once you actually corner them and manage to get your hands on them-finally grabbing ahold of their fat-filled midget arms-they become-literally-spine-free.

They squirm and collapse onto the floor or the sidewalk and suddenly-no matter how hard you try-you cannot lift them up. It's like trying to hug a bucket full of steam. It's as if you are trying to gather up two armfuls of slimy squiggling eels. No matter how hard you try-how