Home Is Where the Boss Is

So my kid is into giving orders. Dictation. Demands. He’s got it down pat, complete with the tone and cadence of a well-seasoned mob boss.

Now, being that he is the kid and I am the adult parent, this doesn’t always go over so well. But at the same time I’m trying not to raise my voice at him. You know, tell him not to be so mean and angry by being mean and angry. But that leads to another problem.

My three-year-old is not all that rational. Like me. I’m as rational as they come. So at least he has a role model to follow.

His gripes are the common ones. The Food. Bedtime. Baths. Ugh. While he used to love the tub and his toys, lately he’s been protesting baths like a college student with a cause. We haven’t been forcing him to bathe every night as we once did, as a skip night won’t hurt him. But the other day he was covered in ketchup. Sand. Mud. Some grease from the car. Magic Marker.

Seriously. It was time to get clean. Come hell or, uh, bathwater he was getting in that tub. Suddenly it seemed all of those skip nights had turned against us. The kid is a shrewd bargainer, able to dial up and recall anything we've said along the way throw it in our faces with the moxie of a good defense attorney. And if facts don't sway the jury he turns on the charm, tugging at the heartstrings with sad eyes, asking to snuggle and read books. 

Meanwhile he’s just buying time.

But sometimes, after a few too many skip nights, there's no avoiding a good scrub down. So after an epic flip out, we got him in the tub.  A half hour later he was still in the tub, now demanding to stay in, flipping out all over again because he thought his Band-Aid was going to come off. These are the moments you just let him go. Don't talk, don't reason. Let him go. My wife just gave me a kiss. Eventually it passed.

His teachers at school tell me that he’s a great kid. He follows the rules. He shares. He uses his manners and is an all around delight to be around. Then he gets home and sheds the halo. With a grunt he spits, grows horns, then grabs his pitchfork and goes to work.

At home he is a hairline trigger away from a meltdown. I’m not sure what it is, maybe all of that delightfulness day in and day out at school just wears one down. I know part of this is his age. He’s three, and he needs to test boundaries, explore his options. Push the limits. Find his inner tyrant.

Let’s say I don’t open the yogurt just right. And by just right I mean peeling it just short of coming off, but not off. DEAR GOD DO NOT TEAR THE LID COME COMPLETELY OFF! Doing so will initiate a stage four meltdown that may result in a fork toss and timeout. Same goes for putting on the shoes too tight.

Timeouts. Yeah, what a joke. Last week we stuck him in his room after one of those stage fours and things got quiet. My wife and I actually had a conversation. A whole one. It was weird.

So after maybe five or seven minutes, max, we went to talk to Chuck Chillout and see if he was ready to rejoin the human race. What we found instead was a potpourri of colorful fish food all over his floor. On his bear. On the pillows slung across the room. I had to laugh. Because he looked surprised. His mouth-opened and his eyes wide, I could tell he was thinking “Holy S#*! I did not know that would happen!"

I often find myself laughing. Because it’s ridiculous, this kid’s struggles. And the above examples are only the few and in between moments. Maybe I should write more about all of the spectacular little moments that make up our lives. How he surprises me every single day with a clever observation or word. How shakes or nods his head when he speaks to emphasize a point. How I love him so much that I could burst. 

The truth is I’m blessed to have a healthy son and wouldn’t change him for the world. I can handle the yogurt. The tears. The socks and shoes and the meltdowns. Because if my house was quiet or clean, so help me God I would be lost.

Tale of Two KIds

We’re along the path in the woods. The creek is high, moving fast with with snow melt and mud. My son’s pace however, is glacial. He takes a step, finds a stick, then WACK! swats off the brittle brown seed heads along the way. For a while I only watch. The tassels of his knit hat swing with each chop. His face, pink cheeks and red nose, is scrunched up in hushed determination. With the hat, the green hooded sweat shirt and puddle boots, he’s a picture of unbridled youth. And for those few moments I’m filled with that enormous, purely unselfish joy that comes with watching my child do the simplest things.

What a wonderful moment I think, placing a hand to my heart, letting the fuzzy little scene etch its place into my memory.

One hour later...

A shitstorm. My kid wants chocolate and has no desire to earn it. The way he sees it he was born therefore it is his birthright. Now. No, now! He assumes the position. Flopping to the floor, his flailing is impeccable. His face, only moments ago a delicate arrangement of unblemished pale chub, is now barnhouse red, bunched up so tight that the tears have nowhere to go and pool in his tightly shut eyes. I try to help and he swats at me. When he receives the desired affect (my anger), he swats again. I walk away, into the other room, where I used to watch movies, sports, or nothing at all, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. 

I've read up on this. I know to ignore it. Don't give in. Don't give him a reaction. 

But a little voice says, Wait, isn't walking away a reaction? 

Well-Read Voice: No. Do not show weakness. Don't second guess it. He'll see it and pounce! 

Little Voice: Nonsense, he's a child. And where did you pick up that accent?

In my three years as a parent, I’m getting better. But it’s not about me. It’s about him.

He’s a good kid, really. He’s got some manners installed and we’re just turning the corner on that pesky potty training. Of course there’s going to be some miscues. Some fits. If there weren’t, well, I’d wonder whether he really is my child.

The main thing I’ve learned is patience. Like that walk in the woods the other day, we don’t just hop skip and jump from one place to another. Because when you’re only say, 1,100 days old, everything is still rather fresh. A stick can be a wondrous instrument. A soldering iron, a sword, a screwdriver, a pen or a fork. It can wack and prod, swing and draw.

Some things I’m doing well, others not so much. I read parenting articles and cringe at all I’m doing wrong. Sometimes I give in. I just throw in the towel and hand him that chocolate to avoid the whole kitchen floor thing. Then I worry that I’m creating a jerk. A trophy-getter. A brat. Like the other day I came home from lunch and my wife had told him no to a cookie. And what did I do but just walk in and unknowingly erase her hard fought battle. Although I gotta give him credit, the little bugger saw an opportunity (or a sucker) and went for it.

But mostly I’m doing things right. I guess. Who knows really? I know that much because he tells me how much fun we have when we’re together. He tells me that he loves his family. He gives me kisses when I get a boo-boo. So that’s something, right?

And besides, so what if we don’t do what everyone else is doing?

My kid eats fruit. He eats vegetables. Most of the time. He loves milk and water and I can proudly say he’s never had a Happy Meal in his life, (although he has developed that taste for chocolate). So what if he doesn’t like meat. Some people find that strange. I find it, well, fine.

He sleeps in his own bed. With Mom. Or me. Or both. That’s just where we are right now. People think that is strange. I’m okay with strange.

My point is that we do what works for us. And so should any parent. Sure, routines are good and temper-tantrums are normal. Other than that, be patient, stock up on chocolate, read lots of books to your kid, and let them be creative. 

That's all I've got. Oh, and if you should start thinking to yourself in an accent, well, at least you'll be entertained.

Moments Not Posted...

We’re sitting at a stoplight, somewhere along the rural countryside. My small family is on its way to the pumpkin patch and the day is gorgeous. Fall is in full swing, to my right is a breathtaking view of the mountains, littered with colorful foliage and crisp blue ridges.

Also breathtaking is my son’s epic fit in the back seat, littered with ear twisting screams that make you question the day you ever even thought about being a parent. It appears that he’s unhappy with something back there in first class and he’s letting the surrounding county know about it. He tugs on his car seat strap, his face smushed up and maroon as the maple leaves with determination.

Too tight, too tight. Then to his shoe, too tight, too tight.

I try to soothe him but he only shakes his head, his long hair swinging because my wife won't budge on the haircut issue. 

I turn back to the steering wheel, trying to ride it out, wondering how other parents are able to get their children in a car for family trips. They always look so happy in the facebook pictures, everyone laughing, singing songs and enjoying life like a gum commercial the whole way across the countryside.

The light turns green and we’re off. My wife talks our son down from the ledge. A mile later he is giggling and happy. So teeters the life of a toddler.

The trip itself was worth the screaming. We arrived at the pumpkin patch and corn maize, settled just beneath the Blue Ridge Mountains, just as a rather low flying plane circled above (and by low flying I mean that the pilot had some jelly in his mustache). Like most toddlers, my kid is all about planes right now, so that was just an added bonus (at least when I realized that no, he wasn't going to crash).

We pet some farm animals, went on a tractor ride, and of course did the pumpkin picking. It was pretty amazing watching him interact with other kids, and both my wife and I noticed a bit of shyness coming from our normally gregarious little guy.

Next was the corn maize. We didn't last long, and instead meandered around for a bit, taking pictures and running into some friends. Between all the lifting--kid and pumpkins--my arms are still a little sore. All part of the experience, I suppose. Overall it was a great time. Just those two fits on the way up and back. But those moments are just part of the game, so I’m told.

We get lots of warnings these days, from friends and family. And not all of them pertain to the kid, some of it is for us. People tell us not to lose focus of our marriage, which, after having leftovers last night, the sound of the vacuum serenading us as we watched our son play on the floor, I guess I can see how romance can take a back seat.

But I wouldn’t change a thing about my home life. My little family is imperfect and wonderful. I can sacrifice things that don’t matter. I can deal with missing a football game because my kid wants to play or getting up at the crack of dawn because our little rooster is roosting. And just when I think it’s too much, that I just want some time to myself or I'm sulking with worry about things in the world that can't be changed, that's when I hear it. The pitter patter of a barefeet hit the floor. 

I look up to find a bare naked toddler barreling down the hallway, having busted loose from the clutches of his Mom's lotion hands. I bend down, holding out my arms. He scoots down the hall, beaming and squealing, glancing back to his room before giggling with glee from his narrow escape from clothes. He hits me in stride, falling into me for a hug and then looking to me with gratitude. 

Thank you Daddy.

At the other end of the hall is his Mom. My wife, my closest friend and the woman who accepts me for all my faults. She hears all my worrying and deals with my own irrational stoplight temper tantrums and ugly moments that I don’t post on facebook.

Yep, this is my life, I think, smiling and hugging my son. And yep, it's all worth it...