The Family Bed

Max is sleeping in the other room. He's surrounded by his stuffed animals. He still sleeps like a little stink bug, on his stomach, with his knees tucked under him and his little butt up in the air. Before he fell asleep, he was staring at the ceiling, chattering away, having the kind of conversation that toddlers have with themselves, sounding quite serious. He looked over at me before nodding out and smiled, then closed his eyes. I'm satisfied knowing that Max's experience of bedtime is secure, with me at his side. I've never regretted the decision for him to share our bed. I've always felt that it was the right thing for us to do.

All This...and That's Just Monday

My max likes to climb on other people's furniture. He likes to climb on my furniture too. He spits his food out if he doesn't like it. He squeezes the juice out of his juice box, onto the floor. He pokes, prods, pushes and pulls at other children. He screams as loud as he can because he likes the sound. He pulls my hair and hits me in the face. He jumps on the bed. He dumps the dog's food and water onto the floor. He turns all the televisions in the house on at the same time. He pulls his diaper off and gets poop on the carpet. He turns the hot water faucet on, in the tub. He dumps his breakfast onto the floor. He empties the contents of drawers out. He squeezes lotion and shampoo onto the carpet. He smears handprints all over the closet-door mirror. He leaves toys all over the house. He bangs on the piano keys with all kinds of objects. He hits the dog on the head with his maracca. He pushes the buttons on the televisions until there is no picture and way too much sound. He has tantrums when he can't have his way, sometimes. He arches his back and kicks when I pick him up to change his diaper. He splashes all the bath water onto the carpet. All this...and that's just Monday.

Wonder and Amazement

Max is mesmerized by the discovery of a rooster at the petting zoo.

Secure with his Manhood.

While watching Max play with some other children at a party today, I learned the following things:

If you take something away from him, he'll hit you.
If you have something he wants, he will take it, and he may still hit you.
If there is a light sabre or baseball bat in the room, he will find it and bash you with it.
His scream is louder than most.
Chalk tastes good.
Sand must be redistributed from the sandbox to other parts of the yard.
He is secure enough with his manhood to play with dolls.
Sometimes he laughs insincerely and it sounds very phoney.
He likes to be where the action is.
Eating Doritos can give you a clown-ish mouth, resembling the Joker from Batman.
Breaking for milk is a must, but food is a waste of time.

How to Eat a Popsicle - by Max

1. Make sure to choose a very hot day for maximum meltability.
2. Have mommy get popsicle and unwrap.
3. Grab popsicle by frozen part and not the stick.
4. Drop popsicle after being startled by the cold.
5. Yell loudly, as mommy retrieves popsicle, to let her know you want it back.
6. Grab popsicle by frozen part and not the stick.
7. Taste popsicle.
8. Drop popsicle after being startled by the cold.
9. Yell loudly, as mommy retrieves popsicle, to let her know you want it back.
10. Grab popsicle by stick this time.
11. Taste popsicle.
12. Say "mmmmmm" out loud, so mommy knows you like it.
13. Wave popsicle in front of doggie, so doggie knows you like it.
14. Rub popsicle all over face while eating.
15. Rub melted juice all over chest as it drips.
16. Watch closely as drips hit the ground.
17. Drag popsicle on the ground.
18. Protest loudly, as mommy takes it away, to let her know you want it back.
19. Grab newly rinsed popsicle by stick.
20. Give mommy a lick.
21. Rub popsicle all over mommy's face.
22. Insist mommy have another lick.
23. Give doggie a lick.
24. Break popsicle in half.
25. Rub broken piece into cement.
26. Pick remainder off of ground to finish eating.
27. Protest loudly, as mommy rinses you off.

I'd Like to Get a Little Cooperation-Part 2

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)

I'd Like to Get a Little Cooperation-Part 1

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)

The Swimming Pool

When the need to swim strikes, anything will work as a swimming pool...well ALMOST anything.

The Same Little Boy

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.

The Little Person Who Lives in My House

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."

He Looks Up at Me

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.

How to Handle a Temper Tantrum

The "experts" will advise you to employ techniques such as:

1. Remain Calm
2. Ignore the Tantrum
3. Avoid Trying to Reason
4. Speak Softly
5. Express Empathy

I, on the other hand, can offer you far more effective means for dealing with one of the most frustrating aspects of parenting a toddler.

1. Plug Your Ears
While, at first, this may seem immature, you will be quick to appreciate its effectiveness. An enhancement to this technique is humming. Combined, you will find these two steps create a synergistic effect. If this is still insufficient...

2. Close Your Eyes
Closing your eyes, in addition to plugging your ears, can often be misleading enough to make you think the tantrum has stopped. Do not be fooled by this. Peek every now and then before resuming full sensory intake. If your child persists with the tantrum, distract him long enough to...

3. Run Away
A closet or a bathroom works well. Don't forget that in order for this method to help, you must be very quiet. I have celebrated great successes combining these first three methods in tandem. If you have not regained your sanity by this point...

4. Give In
Hey, why fight it? After all, stress kills.

Conversations with my Son

Conversation #1
Me: "Max, do you like going for a walk with mommy?"
Max: "Yeah"
Me: "Did you like breakfast?"
Max: "Yeah"
Me: "Do you like talking to mommy?"
Max: "Yeah"
...at which point I decide to throw in a validity check...
Me: "Do you want mommy to throw away all your toys?"
Max: "Yeah"
...end of conversation...

Conversation #2
Me: "Max, mommy doesn't like it when you throw the remote on the floor. It's going to break."
Max: "Sorry"
Me: "Did you just say sorry?" (astonished)
Max: "Yeah"
Me: "Are you sorry?"
Max: "Yeah" (as he raises the remote over his head , preparing to throw it again)
...end of conversation...

Conversation #3
...a woman walks by the house, pushing a stroller...
...the dog starts barking...
Morgan (the dog): "Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, rufff, ruffff ruff, ruf, rufff, ruff.!"
Me: "Morgan!!!! No bark!!!!!"
Max: Ru, ru, ru, ru, ru!!"
Me: "Max!!! No bark!!!!"
...end of conversation...

"Let's give this woman a round of applause!" is what Max would have said if he had possessed the vocabulary. Instead, I got a great big smile and he did clap, quite joyously. That's what happened when, in the course of a pretty routine diaper change, I had to touch his "business." I had purchased some Huggies diaper wipes recently, instead of the Pampers I normally like and discovered that they leave a linty residue behind on my boys little bottom. Well, some of this lint was stuck to his "business" and when I went to pick it off, I was applauded. Having met with his expressed approval, I quickly taped the diaper back together, scooped him up off of the changing table and sent him on his way. But then I started thinking. And this may not be an easy thought process to follow, but bear with me for a minute. I start thinking how that was a TYPICAL male response and how funny that was. I crack myself up and laugh out loud about it, shaking my head. I think about how I'm always so careful not to make scrunched up, grossed out faces when I change his diaper because I've read that expressed displeasure, when you are changing a baby's diaper, can later impact their self esteem, particularly regarding their genitals. I also start wondering how it would feel to get a round of applause everytime we had contact with our husband's "business." Now I'm really cracking myself up. And thinking "YAH, we deserve it!" Then I start thinking about getting a round of applause for all the deserving things we do, whether it be flipping an egg without breaking the yoke or scrubbing a toilet. Not just a one man clap, but a full audience, round of applause. "Yay!!!! I did it!!! I folded the clothes!! AND...I PUT THEM AWAY! Yaaaaaaaaay!!!!!!" clapclapclapclapclap.....Then, I realize that's what I do to Max when he accomplishes something. I give him a fabulous round of applause. Now I'm thinking "gee, how strange is that!" So is he going to grow up expecting a grandiose validation for every little thing he does? Well, I won't worry about that just yet. For now, I'll continue to applaud all his accomplishments, which ARE grandiose in his mother's eyes anyway. And, apparently, I'll get my own kudos from time to time.

My son has long hair for a boy. I like it that way. He loves his hair too. He's never had a blanky or a binky or a bear for comfort. He's always had my long hair and his own. He strokes his hair while he drinks his milk (when mine's not available). He walks around with one hand in the air, softly tugging at his strawberry tusses and the other hand on his bottle. He does the same as he drifts off to sleep at night. His hair gets knotted in the back, from tossing around in his sleep. Sometimes he struts around all morning with a great, big, rat's nest at the back of his head until I have a chance to comb it out. He also likes to wipe his hands in his hair. We've had mud, soap, baby food, finger paints and cream of wheat, which dries like cement, plastered into his hair. This morning he took his piece of buttered toast and wiped it on top of his head. His hair was greasy all day. He doesn't mind if I slick it back like Guido the Italian Mobster for my own amusement. Sometimes he'll throw a hat on his head for his morning walkabout. After all, it's just an accessory for his hair. We've been through some interesting looks, like the "back-of-the-head bald spot," "the comb over" and the "first haircut." For now we'll keep it long. I like it that way.

Moments of these past few days flash inside my mind the way a strobe light pulses away in a tacky lounge. I hear my husbands words "OHMYGOD!" I see the blood pour from Max's forehead. I tear a muscle in my leg trying to get to them. I hear my baby screaming. Moments that string together the events of a day gone wrong. Our first trip to the emergency room. Watching my baby almost pass out from exhaustion in the middle of them fixing his little wound. Happy it was a clean gash. Trying to hold my composure for him. Waves of relief when he molds his small body to mine and clings tightly as we are leaving.

Maybe now we can get on with our weekend. Or maybe not. How about a cut on his toe, then a clip to his nose with more blood. Falling off a chair and a cold to top things off make our Easter weekend complete. Thank goodness for good company and good food in between events. We may consider a helmet and mittens in the future.

Today my mother taught my son how to put his foot in his mouth. I'm worried about my side of the gene pool. Nuf said.

Max has been pooping all day long. After the first poop, you think, "Glad to get that over with, now we can get on with our day." When the second poop happens, you think, "Wow, this kid's healthy!" When the third poop occurs, you think, "Hmmm, what have I been feeding you?" When the fourth poop makes it's way to your nostrils, you think, "alright, what's going on here...are you sick?" But you realize the poop looks healthy and your little poopasaurus seems to be feeling just fine. Then, when the fifth poop rears it's ugly head, you say out loud, "are you doing this on purpose???" You give a very conscious, disapproving look, as if to say, "stop all this incessant pooping!!" But you realize that you don't want to cause your small beloved to have "issues," so you quickly go back to smiling and singing happy poop songs. When that sixth poop comes into your life, you are cursing under your breath and wondering why you don't own any stock in the Pampers corporation. By now you are thinking about how you'll have to change the diaper bag from one prolific day alone. You are smearing white, zinc based paste between those cherubic little cheeks, hoping to protect them from further assaults. And you're wondering how many poops the other moms have to deal with in one day. I wonder if other kids poop all day like Max. At least it's not in his hand.

Max has a friend named Micah. Micah is happy and bright and easy going. And he is so cute. But Max can't control himself when he's around Micah. He pulls his hair, knocks him down, pulls his clothes, pinches his skin and wrestles him to the ground. He does this to no one else. And I sincerely believe that he likes Micah very much. I cannot explain this behavior. Max is not spanked and he has no exposure to aggressive behavior. Max is about 3 months higher up on the food chain than Micah and, certainly, there is a pecking order amongst toddlers, but I don't think this is explanation enough . Here is an example of the terrorism my child inflicts upon this sweet little soul:

Upon approaching a tearful Micah, looking desperately for his mommy...

Micah's mom: "What happened"?

Witnessing mom: "I don't know. The two of them were just running around together."

Micah's mom: (laughing) "Oh, you mean Max was CHASING Micah."

Me: "Yup, that sounds more like it." (shaking my head)

Witnessing mom: "No, I think they were having fun."

Me: "Sounds like MAX was having fun."

Micah's mom: "Micah probably started crying because he couldn't find me, to save him from Max." (now comforting her little guy)

In this case Max hadn't even put aggressive little hands on Micah. It was simply a case of terrorism by chasing. In the scheme of things, a manageable situation. But what about the next time? I tell Max to be nice to Micah. "Niiiiiiiiiice Micah," I say, similarly to how I teach him to handle our dogs more gently.

Max is Micah's own, personal, bully and I would really like to see little Micah put him in his place. This is the nature of toddler friendship. Their politics are rudimentary and primal, at best. Max is still, developmentally, too young for empathy. For now, all I can do is keep a close eye on their interactions and protect Micah...Max's friend.

"He's helping me," I tell myself. I pull the weeds by the root, so that they won't grow back. He pulls them from the top, disrupting the seed heads and causing them to disperse, so they'll be sure to find new homes in the soil. I fill the wheelbarrow with weeds, but before I can roll it over to the trash can to empty them, he has decided to empty them onto the ground. I pick them back up. He has found a snail. He reaches out a hand that's far too large for such a little person and before I can take it from him, he has squashed it. I guide his hand over the trashcan for an impromtu funeral. Before I can get him to the sink to wash the slime off, he licks it. I decide that little boys are gross. He leans his head down and spits the taste out, looks up at me and says "blech!" "Gross," I tell him. "Snails are not for eating." I decide the hose is closer, so I rinse off his hands. I set it down to run over and turn it back off, but by the time I do, he is wet. His hair and clothing are soaked. He's squealing gleefully. I remove the wet clothing and return to the weeds. He finds the drainage hole, removes the cap and fills it with shredded bark before dumping some more weeds out of the barrow. "He's helping me," I tell myself.

"I already picked that up," I say as I pick up the flash cards from the floor again. No one is listening. He is already focused on something else, dumping out the Legos I just picked up. "I thought you were done with those," I say as he is tossing them across the room. He runs off to gather cheerios that the dog has just knocked over from the counter, where he stashed them. He is too late and gives out a shriek. "Nana! Nana!" he screams. I peel a banana for him and he furiously shakes his head from left to right, letting me know that he did not want a banana, he just wanted to yell for a banana in his most demanding tone. Just practicing. I return to folding the laundry. I'm almost done with this load. He runs over to me and gives me a kiss. Then he starts yanking on the clothes I've just folded, pulling them to the floor. "I already folded those," I say as I pick the clothes up from off the floor. No one is listening.