Saturday, February 8, 2014

Testing Testing...

I’ve been getting my tail whipped lately.  And no, this isn’t the part where I talk about punching the clock or deadlines at work. Not a lack of sleep. Not Hemorrhoids.  It’s my one year old.  He likes to smack me in the face.  Real smacks, like roundhouse windmill open handed wallops.  

Jack Nicholson
Bad Boys...
He's not a menace or an omen child.  He’s not even a problem child. Just a boy testing boundaries and working on those OT skills, as Mom calls them. Combine that with my tendency to exaggerate. But still, he didn’t have to hit me so hard.
I'm not in the habit of letting him run roughshod.  No, I’m usually hunched over or writhing in pain. A little/some/most/all of it’s my own fault. I used to play this game with him (last week--things develop quickly around here). I’d hit myself over the head with a water bottle, big old bonks to the head with dramatic whiplashing and sound effects. Just for a cheap laugh. Not the best teaching decision in the world but I just couldn’t help myself. It was that gut busting laugher that propelled me.  Now I’m a mere circus clown with only myself to blame…

But then last night he bit me in the arm. Hard. I wasn't expecting that. There was dust in my eyes so...Anyway, the dude’s no slouch when it comes to the arsenal.  A flail to the groin. A claw to the nose. The occasional head butt sneeze leaving me both woozy and wet. We forgot to cut his nails for a week and I went to work looking like faces of meth.
Even if you don't feel bad for me, feel for the dogs. He takes swipes at them too. I’m beginning to think that they see him like those aquarium fish saw Darla in Finding Nemo.
But I'm sure he’s just a baby boy being a boy, yet I worry about things. Things in books.  You know, true crime books, like the ones my stepmother writes…. Even as a young child he displayed tendencies of violent behavior….yikes. And other books, I recently read Defending Jacob. No one believes their kid is capable of such things…until…
Alright, that’s it.  I’ll try to be stern with him.  I'll use the dad voice--the deep voice that commands the house and demands that kids say sir. But stern isn’t really in my bag.  My bag is stuffed tight with bouncy balls and whoopee cushions. Maybe a set of fake teeth. I’ve got to work on my stern. 



  1. haha, reminds me of a guy I work with. His kid was about the same age and he come into work looking like scar face too!