I try cleaning the kitchen, but he gets ahold of the dish soap and squeezes it out all over the floor. I forget that the dog food and water are still on the floor where he can get to them. He puts handfuls of dogfood in the water, making a gravy, before dumping it all over the floor. I make a note to myself that I must clean the floor at some point today. Meanwhile, I sop up the soap and the gravy.
I get a whiff of that familiar stench that reminds me it's time for another diaper change. I pick him up to carry him off, but he arches his back and I feel the unmistakable twinge of the tendonitis which plagues me. I silently and sarcastically thank him for the gift of tennis elbows (both) he's bestowed upon me. I lay him down on the changing table and he whines. He doesn't like being layed down. I place the new, clean diaper under him as I prepare to remove the dirty one. I ready myself with wipes. I never win this race, but I always try. I pull the tabs with one hand as I hold his legs up with the other. I pull the diaper away and move it to the side, quickly grabbing for the wipes and, as usual, before I make my first wipe, he's stuck his hand in it. Now I'm trying to hold his legs and wipe his hands. Ugh. Eventually, he's clean with a fresh diaper and we're good to go. Lunch is served. He gets a 2 chicken legs and some corn, with a small serving of chocolate pudding. I feel guilty, momentarily, that I'm feeding him a frozen meal. Then the feeling's gone. I pick him up to put him in his high chair and he starts kicking his dangling legs. He 
thinks it's funny that I can't position his legs into the chair while he's doing this. I get him in, I ask him to sit down. He doesn't. I pull his legs from under him and he's sitting. He picks at his food and tosses one of the chicken legs to our dog. The dog wolfs it down before I can retrieve it. He fiddles with his food, eating very little, wearing most of it. At least the chocolate pudding. I turn on the television for him and he watches while he picks at his food until he falls asleep in his chair...ah, reprieve...(to be continued)
Why does everything have to be a battle? All I want is a little cooperation. It starts first thing in the morning. He wakes up next to us, the same way he falls asleep at night, thrashing about. He clobbers his father and he pulls my hair. He kicks me in the face. He laughs, as we grumble. I just want to sleep for another 20 minutes. He's calling out "nook" (milk) and "weeoohs" (Wiggles). Okay, I'll get him some milk and turn on the Wiggles. Yay. 20 minutes more of blissful, twilight drifting. Finally, I wake. I try to change his diaper, but he escapes from my grip and climbs down off the bed. The chase is on. He bonks his head on the wall that he just ran into, so now he's crying while I, opportunistically, grab him and whisk him off to the changing table. He won't lay down, so I bribe him with a pair of shoes to play with, as a distraction. Diaper off. Wiping his bottom. He's bouncing his legs and so I can't get this darned diaper fastened...hold...still...grrh..there! Finally! Now off with you. I think I'll sneak off to check my email. No such luck. I'm spotted. He climbs under the desk and surfaces into my lap. He's banging on the keyboard. I'm outta here. Come on Max, let's eat. So, I make him breakfast. Cream of wheat. He takes a couple bites. Now he wants to experiment. "Hmmmm...what will happen if I shake this spoon full of cereal into the air?" I end up wiping cream of wheat off of everything...the high chair, Max's hair, the dogs fur, the wall. He complains as I wipe his face. So, how about a cup of tea (for me) and a little morning news...well, it sounds better than the experience turns out to be. I have to struggle over my own cup of tea, which he keeps trying to grab from me, until it spills in my lap. Then, I have to struggle over the remote control, which he keeps trying to grab from me. He finally succeeds and throws it, forcefully, onto the tile floor. I'm amazed that it still works, considering how many hits it's taken over the past year. (to be continued)
When the need to swim strikes, anything will work as a swimming pool...well ALMOST anything.
You lie sleeping, as I touch your face. My fingers trace your brow, your long lashes, the curve of your nose, your strawberry lips. Your soft, shiny hair is the color of fallen leaves and smells like baby shampoo. Your hushed sigh smells of sweet orange blossoms. Time stands still for me in this moment of grace. It's hard to believe you're the same little boy that was running around like a militant terrorist only an hour ago.
I spied upon the little person who lives in my house. I followed him from room to room. He marches about in his green rubber boots, shouting out "shooz!" He rushes, quite hurriedly, into the playroom and turns on the television. I sneak away to turn off the other two televisions that he's powered up and abandoned. He proceeds to push buttons until there is nothing more than loud static and abandons it as well. We cross paths in the hallway where he screaches "mommymommymommySHOOZ!!!!!!!" He pushes past me into his bedroom. He puts on a hat and grabs his toy stroller. He announces "hat!" He pushes the stroller past me again and about the house, noticing that one of the televisions he has turned on is now off. He turns it back on. He stands for a moment, in catatonic awe, staring at the screen, before continuing to push the stroller onward. He knocks the stroller over, tossing it to his left, indignant, as if he has just been insulted for the last time. He scans the room for something...not the book, not the horsey, not the dodgie, not the pirates...AHA! The bottle of milk. He picks up his bottle of milk and sucks momentarily, before heading to what used to be our dining room. He sees that the television in that room has been turned off and he turns it back on. He leans against the coffee table, watching his dvd and drinking his milk. He looks over at the coffee table and wonders what will happen if he holds his bottle of milk upside down, over it. The milk drips out slowly, one drop at a time. It doesn't take long until he has a puddle. He wonders what will happen if he smears it around. He puts a hand, which is far to large for such a small person, into the milk and smears it around the table. I blow my cover by crying out in pain, as I remove my foot from a very small plastic pig on the floor. He replies "oi" "oi."
When he's looking at me, I mean really looking at me, I feel so transparent. He forces me to be true and strong. He forces meaning into what had previously been just words. I measure my worth by his happiness. I am the hopeful jester, vying for his smiles, coveting his laughter. His gaze paralyzes me. That smile, it cripples me. There is a lump in my throat and joy in my heart. There are no words.
thinks it's funny that I can't position his legs into the chair while he's doing this. I get him in, I ask him to sit down. He doesn't. I pull his legs from under him and he's sitting. He picks at his food and tosses one of the chicken legs to our dog. The dog wolfs it down before I can retrieve it. He fiddles with his food, eating very little, wearing most of it. At least the chocolate pudding. I turn on the television for him and he watches while he picks at his food until he falls asleep in his chair...ah, reprieve...
