Never Let Them See You Sweat. And Never Wear a Wool Turtleneck While Changing a Diaper During a Temper Tantrum

This is Elaine Boosler's Dry Idea commercial about not letting them see you sweat from the 1980s (my formative teen years, during which, oddly enough, I was really into Elaine Boosler). Maybe if I were a comedian who worked nights and odd hours, instead of suffering from severe anxiety over getting to my day job on time every morning, this entire blog post would not have been necessary.

 The kid is seemingly--and thankfully--a relative latecomer to the full-blown temper tantrum. At 2-1/2 plus, as of last week, he had yet to have a full on kicking and screaming meltdown. And I mean the nuclear meltdown. The Chernobyl disaster. Yes, we often having whining accompanied by tears. We often have agitated pushing and kicking. We have many screeching "Nooooooos!" But there had yet to be a complete tantrum, like the ones I had been reading about lately in this NPR article, which dissects the tantrum, breaking it down, play by play, moment by moment, comparing it to tracking a severe weather system, and offering tips for dealing with tantrums, which all basically amount to: don't. They are unstoppable, irrational occurrences that need to be waited out, much like a hurricane.

Of late, during our worst moments, I've tried what Dr. Karp refers to as "kind ignoring." It seems to work rather well, if you've got the time for it. Example: the other night when the kid found a deck of cards he wanted to open, I took it from him, explaining "This is my last remaining, complete deck of cards. If I give them to you, I will have more cards scattered throughout the house, and should Stu and I ever decide to play a game of gin or host a poker night, we'll be at a complete loss." Don't ask when the last time I played gin was or if I've ever hosted a poker night (Although I will pause to note that I'm a mean gambler. Ask Stu about Vegas.). The point being, that for my own sanity, I need to know that there is at least one complete deck in the house. There was whining and crying and flinging about on the floor and screaming "I need the cards! They're mine!! I need them!" Per Karp's advice, I simply stated, "You're upset now, and that's okay. I'll let you be upset and when you're finished, I'll come back."

The kid lolled about for a bit longer while I retired downstairs. Moments later, I heard, "Mommy, I'm done being upset now." And the evening progressed quite nicely. The next time I tried this approach, it worked almost instantaneously. The kid was upset that we were turning off the television and started up with his whining and rolling back and forth in an annoyed fashion. I began my remarks regarding leaving him to be upset and before a single tear was shed, he said, again, "Mommy, I'm all done now." Deeeelightful.

This morning, while in my wool turtleneck and having to leave for day care drop off and work, it was another story entirely. Initially, the morning was fabulous. There was not a fight or a whimper or a whine throughout the entire proceedings of waking up, eating breakfast, or getting dressed. And just as we were about to don our coats and actually leave the house earlier than necessary (Oh, hooray! Oh, joy! I might actually be on time to work!), the usual schedule stopper began: "Mommy, I have a poop coming."

Well, not to worry. We're early. At worst, maybe we'll be on time or just a touch later than usual. 

However, when the time came to whisk the kid upstairs for changing, all hell broke loose. The kid is never a fan of my hauling him upstairs for a change, but it usually occurs with nothing more than a couple of pleas for a few minutes more play time before the affair begins. But today, the resistance was wicked. Without the details, despite all my previous tales of changing a kicking, screaming, and crying child, none of it compared to what happened this morning. It required force which I didn't know I had. It required knowledge of wrestling moves I didn't know I knew. It required a t-shirt and shorts and not a wool sweater and corduroys. It required a towel to mop up my perspiration.

It also required tactics that I wish I had had the time to execute. I should have let the kid have his tantrum rather than proceed with every conceivable incorrect approach. As I said to Stu later, when recounting the tale, I did everything wrong. 

I engaged. I asked questions. I yelled. I pleaded. I manhandled. I yelled some more. And then I shouted, just for good measure. And then I yelled again. I should have just let the whole thing be. At the end of it all, when the kid was lying on the floor in an askew pull up, the result of a failed wrestling match, when I was too tired and overheated to continue, I realized I would have saved time and bodily fluids had I just ridden out the storm and let him flail about and changed him when he was finished. I was going to be late anyway. Now I was going to be late and sweaty.

That's the thing about being a working parent. Sometimes you sweat the small stuff because you don't have time not to sweat in order to get to work on time.

A Certain Ratio

Potty training officially began at 9:37 on the morning of Friday, November 25. By 8:00 p.m. on the evening of Sunday, November 27, the ratio of accidents to successes was as follows:

Accidents: 19.0

Successful uses of potty: 0.75 

The .75 is comprised of .50 a pee that began on the floor and ended in the potty after I rushed the portable Bjorn potty under the kid and shouted "sit down! sit down! you're doing it! you're doing it!" and .25 some sort of tiny pebble of poop that only made into the potty because the kid was on his hands and feet with his butt pointed squarely at the potty. I gave him partial credit for initiating the move that placed him adjacent to the potty and for aiming his tush in the right direction. The rest of the credit belongs to gravity.

We had high hopes for our designated potty training weekend. Changing diapers had become a never-ending and continually-increasing struggle. The kid hated being up on the changing table and did nothing but kick me and shout "don't hold my legs! don't touch me!" from the minute the process began to the minute it ended. And in between were the lowering and the lifting of the buttocks which makes it impossible to attach a diaper to a kid and the flipping over of the entire body which is just annoying. And messy if you haven't gotten rid of the old diaper yet.

The potty talk had begun in earnest over the summer when the kid started day care and noticed all the big kids using the bathroom. As the months progressed and the seasons changed it became clear the that the time for ditching diapers was upon us. There were arguments that at 2-1/2, it was still too early as these days, many boys don't train until 3. And there were arguments that we had already waited too long. But the decision was made based on the fact that I could no longer tolerate getting clocked in the face by a wayward foot and was tired of figuring out how to refasten a cattywampus diaper onto a writhing child.

And so, the excited countdown to "no more diaper day!" began. We made a chart on a poster board. We bought stickers. We talked about the day we would wear big boy underwear (which we'd actually purchased months ago) and the kid was ready. Or at least he said he was ready.

And I thought he was; on the Wednesday before the Friday that had been selected as "no more diaper day," he actually asked to sit on the little potty in the corner of the bathroom. And in the moment before the pee pee came, he stood up, faced the potty, aimed and fired and shot the whole amount right into the potty. And if that weren't enough, without any prompting by Mommy, he picked up the removable pot section, took it over to the toilet (perhaps the word "took" implies that there is actually room to walk in our bathroom. this is not the case. "turned" to the toilet might be a more appropriate description), dumped the pee right in and flushed. I was delighted! Oh my goodness! My son is a peeing prodigy! This is going to be a snap! The kid is going to be like those other children I hear about--the ones whose mothers say "Oh, I just put litte Timmy in his big boy pants and he knew just what to do. We didn't have any accidents. He didn't even need pull ups at night!"

Bully for you, you lucky parents of little Timmy. Bully for you.

As you can tell from the certain ratio of our initial potty training weekend, we are not the parents of little Timmy. We are not following the advice of the books and the parents who exclaim "OMG--do it in 2 days! Don't do that over-several-weeks thing. Nightmare!" Perhaps the nightmare will be our reality. At this point, that looks to be the road down which we are headed. With our lack of any success by Saturday night--the end of that magical two-day period in which every other kid we've ever heard of seems to have *gotten it*--we came upon several methods to try on Sunday: running water, rewards for sitting on the potty for 15 minutes (I was going to go with a sticker, but Stu stunningly upped the ante to 2 new Matchbox or Hot Wheels cars for each sitting. Yeah. You heard me. Not 1 car, but 2.), running around "nakey," and moving the portable potty downstairs after purchasing a potty seat (pictured above) for the big toilet upstairs.

The kid loves his potty seat. He has no qualms about sitting on that thing indefinitely. He sits. He plays with cars. He listens to the running water. He talks about how he's going wee wee and woo woo, which he learned to say from the Elmo Potty Time dvd I rushed out to buy after remembering that some parent had said her child instantly understood potty training after one viewing. We've now had several viewings and the kid was delighted to learn how many ways there are to refer to pee and poop and thoroughly enjoys Grover and Elmo's song about accidents. He's even gone so far as to tell us that he doesn't want any more accidents and that he doesn't like them. But still, we sit on the potty and nothing happens. And when we take him off the potty, everything happens. 

When Monday rolled around, it was clear the kid was not heading off to day care in big boy underwear.  But the kid was also not going to wear diapers and get back up on that changing table. So we've been progressing through the week in pull ups, which seems to please the kid to no end. So he's not a potty training prodigy.  So he needs a lot more practice and it may take weeks. He does some things amazingly well. Other things not as well. And for any kid, that's a certain ratio that's certainly just fine.

Sick Day

Shel Silverstein's "Sick." One of my fave poems of all time.

11:28pm
"We have puke," Stu announces, leaning in towards my head so I can hear him through the muffle of the earplugs (Stu and I both sleep with earplugs. Stu's affair with the plugs began several years ago when he was experiencing some sleep issues and I followed suit a couple of years later during my pregnancy when I inexplicably became incredibly sensitive to night time noises).

I did not expect this. I had become complacent. There hasn't been puke in months and months, possibly not since 2010. Stu had come in a moment ago to tell me the kid was crying and that he was going in to talk to him. That is our usual course of action when the kid cries during the night. Stu goes in and says something along the lines of "Hey, buddy, it's night night time. You're tired. You'll feel better if you lie down and go back to sleep. It's night night time. We love you. We'll see you in the morning." And voila. The kid goes back night night. If I go in, however, it's a different story entirely. There are demands to sit in the chair for "one minute." There are requests for "one tiny little sip of water," with accompanying bent fingers indicating small amounts of water. There are requirements of huggies and nose kisses and uppies huggies and neck kisses and belly kisses and if we're really awake, synchronized jumping (the kid in the crib, me on the floor, both of us holding on the crib rail). I am in his room for no less than 35 minutes while Stu can waltz out in 35 seconds.

"Yeah," Stu says, "I heard a wet cough." That's never good.

11:31pm
We enter the room to a weeping and coughing kid whose pajamas are dripping vomit. I peel his pjs off as his tears wane and sniffles begin. I lift him out of the crib and place him on the floor and begin the wipe down as Stu works on the bed, changing the sheets and hightailing it to the basement to get the sheets in the washer, because, of course, we now only have one clean sheet left and as any parent can attest, infant, baby, and toddler upchucking is just like sneezing. It's rarely a one-shot deal. So if the kid pukes again, we're out of sheets. I hold the kid for a few minutes, hoping and praying that he'll let me just put him back in his crib for night night and won't ask to sleep in our bed. I ask if he wants to sit with me before going back to bed.

"Yes, please. And then huggies and nose kisses?" which is what we do when he's getting ready for night night. I might be homefree on this one.

11:46pm
The kid seems to have fallen back asleep. Stu and I are in the basement, wondering what to do about the lint that has lodged itself in the drain of the sink that catches all the washer's water. We don rubber gloves and both try to fish out the swampy substance.

"I think we're just sticking it farther in," I note.

"You're right. I'll just get underneath and take the pipe apart and we'll take it out from there." My husband is a wonderful man. But he is not a handy man.

"You going to remember how to put the pipes back together?" I am having vivid memories of a Thanksgiving debacle which involved over an hour of pipe reconstruction after Stu decided to approach a clogged sink full of potato peels in a similar fashion.

"Yeah--this is much easier than the kitchen sink."

12:07am
"Do you want me to see if I can put it back together?" I watch Stu who is now lying shirtless on his back on the basement floor which is littered with droplets of digested carrot and corn which had fallen off of the kid's pajamas when Stu had tried to rinse them in the sink before it began to back up.

"No, no, I got it! See there is this little thing which slides up and attaches and I forgot about that piece and--"

Oh god. Please don't start explaining the structure of the pipe to me now. I'm never going to sleep again tonight. I just know it.

12:24am
All is quiet on the nursery front and Stu and I are back in the kitchen debating whether or not I should go back to sleep or wait a bit longer to see if there's more digestive action.

12:26am
A loud cough and some alien-type noise comes through the monitor. And then there is crying. We go through the whole sheet and pajama changing process again, minus the lint-filled sink drain. Amazingly enough, the kid goes back to sleep again.

3:33am
I can almost see the blue lights of the monitor from behind my closed eyes before I can hear the corresponding sobs. Stu is already up and on it. I am up and waiting for the report, which I don't always get. Every time Stu comes back from the kid's room after a mid-night visit, I want the whole low down: was he awake? Was he standing up? Did he ask for anything? Stu usually just says the kid was fine and falls back asleep instantly. I lie awake, eyes affixed to the monitor, waiting anxiously for another blip.

Stu walks in and leans into the ear-plug-accommodating stance, "He is demanding one minute in the chair with you." Stu rarely gives in to the kids middle o' the night demands, so I know this is serious.

I enter the nursery and the kid is standing, puffy red-faced, arms outstretched towards me. It's late, or early, and I want to go back to bed, but who can resist such a thing? He needs me. When I pick him up, his entire body collapses onto mine and I drop into the chair with his weight on top of me. He seems particularly warm and I'm concerned about fever, but the kid has inherited Stu's oven-like body temperature so I'm never quite sure whether it's just regular heat or a fever. Although truth be told, mothers know these things. In hindsight, I knew. I should have known to trust my knowing and given him some Tylenol right then and there. But no, I was hopeful. And I was stressed about missing work. And I thought maybe if I ignored everything he would just go back to sleep and we would have a normal day that was to begin in, oh, 3 hours.

3:48am
I try to put the kid back in his crib. Hey--it worked twice after the puking! But tears erupt immediately. I know he's sick and I realize that even if he were to go back to sleep by himself, sending him to school when he'd thrown up twice was probably pretty high on the irresponsible parent behavior chart. I give the kid an over-the-crib-rail huggie as the sobs subside.

"Would you like to sleep with Mommy in Mommy and Daddy's bed?"

"Yeah." I already know that a sick day is in my very near future.

"Okay, I just have to talk to Daddy and I will come back and get you."

"Okay," and he sits himself in the corner of the crib to wait.

I plod back to our bedroom and inform Stu that he will be sleeping on the couch and that the kid and I will be taking over the bed and that we should not be woken up in the morning. I plead my case for staying home with him, explaining how we can't possibly send him to school without knowing if he'll even be able to keep breakfast in his stomach. Plus, he might have a fever.

I bring the kid to bed and we sleep peacefully for the next three hours, after which he makes a break for it, slides off the bed, and gathers several of his Matchbox cars that have scattered across our bedroom floor in the preceding days and I have yet to have the wherewithal to put them anywhere else so they remain an obstacle course across the carpet. The kid lines the cars along the side of the bed (he has a thing about lines of cars. we figure it's either an early indicator of OCD or a future in a NASCAR pit.) and then removes two from the line and climbs back onto the bed via a step stool. I think that perhaps he is not sick and that we might go to school and I might not have to miss another day of work. But I feel the kid's head as he lies back down and I know he might still have a fever. We fall back asleep cars in hand, as if they were animals with which to snuggle.

Two hours later we wake up and there is crying and definitely fever. The rest of the morning entails attempts to actually see what the fever is amidst shrieking and kicking (102+...); attempts at harrowing diaper changes, the likes of which I have not previously known; and attempts to get the kid to ingest Tylenol which results in spit-out Tylenol on our couch, a dropper full of Tylenol flung across the living room, and a smattering of Tylenol across the wall which makes me consider whether or not the kid might be the next Jackson Pollock. There are also: calls to the day care (no we're not coming in today, and oh, really, there was another child who is home after having thrown up during the night?), calls to and from Stu, calls to and from my mother, calls to and from the doctor (possibly this is all a reaction to the flu shot and try to bribe the kid into taking some Tylenol), calls to and from work (yes, it was important for me to be at that afternoon meeting, and yes, i suppose sending out invites to a media event can wait one more day).

There is also a three-hour period during which I sit holding my ridiculously hot son. There is a part of it that is glorious. He hasn't let me hold him for that long since he was only months old. I adore having his cheek on my shoulder or pressed into my chest so that my sweatshirt zipper leaves a red and swollen impression when he lifts his head to turn over. And there is a part of it that is horrifying. Please take some Tylenol, I implore every time the kid wakes up in tears. It will make you feel better, I promise. Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!! he screeches. I cry miserably over my inability to make him feel better and hold him with all of my might.

There is also the hour during which my mother brings me a turkey wrap from the coffee shop down the street since by 2:30 I had eaten nothing all day. I am unable to get out from under the kid, so I eat my wrap with one hand, the coffee table pushed up against the couch to catch any of my plummeting poultry. And there is a lot of falling meat. I suggest that you never try to eat a wrap with one hand.

I also suggest that you try never to miss a moment of taking care of your sick kid, if you can help it. Because when the fever finally starts to break and he finally wakes up enough to request Sesame Street and he will finally take some Tylenol as he's engrossed in watching Grover look for a fly in--and under, and around, and next to--a bowl of soup, and asks for snuggles (much happier and cooler, and not crying snuggles), it's SICK. In the best way possible.

Let's Spend the Night Together

To this day, I remember my first sleep over. I was six years old and it was with my then best friend. And you know, when you are a six year old girl, your best friend is with whom you want to spend every waking moment. It began as an extended play date that progressed towards the novel idea of inviting her to stay for dinner (I'd never had a friend stay for dinner before! Oh my god--what joy and excitement to have my best friend sit at the family dinner table!) and moved on to calling her parents to ask if it was all right for her to spend the night. My friend and I were besides ourselves with glee when my mother got off the phone with her mother to announce that she would indeed be sleeping over. I remember her borrowing my nightgown (I still recall that it was a pink flannel gown with an illustration of a girl and a wall and a flower and there was a quote reading "I'm No Wallflower!" which made no sense to me at the time.) and when we hunkered down on the pull-out couch in the den, it seems as if there were hours of talking and giggling. And so, my love for sleepovers began. Ah, how I adored chatting and whispering and laughing long into the night with my friends.

When I reached my late teens, I still enjoyed a good sleepover, but by then, I actually favored sleeping and was usually ready to call it a night somewhere just after 1 a.m. (you know, when Saturday Night Live was over). But in the line up of friends whose houses I would sleep on weekend nights, there was always that one friend who wanted to talk a bit too long when I just wanted to go all Samuel L. Jackson on her.

I had forgotten about those moments of frustration until a night last week when the kid spent the night in my bed for the first time.

Yes, I know this will send shocks across the mothering universe, but let me put this question to bed (pun somewhat intended) immediately: no, the kid has never slept in my bed. Here's how that shook down: When Stu and I brought the kid home from the hospital, we spent about one week with the kid sleeping in a bassinet in our bedroom. Well, let me rephrase that. We spent about a week with the kid sleeping in a bassinet in our bedroom while I made sure he was alive during five minute intervals and the rest of the time Stu and I lied in bed fitfully listening to his various snortlings and rustlings. After the first week, he was sleeping well in his swaddle and my sister advised us just to put him in the crib in his room. We did, and we've never looked back, and apparently neither has the kid. 

Other than as a make shift trampoline or surface for the ever-engaging game of roly poly, the kid has expressed almost no interest in Mommy and Daddy's bed. Even during times of illness, when he's needed to sleep with someone (or more to the point, with Mommy), he's refused to sleep in our bed. And I mean flat-out refused. There is kicking and screaming and tears upon tears every time we'd carry him into our bedroom in a mere attempt to get him close to the bed. So instead, we've had to sleep on the chair in his bedroom (which is the most god-awful, bloody uncomfortable seating apparatus known to man and my behind is numb and aching within 45 minutes of holding the kid's body weight on top of me in that pit of agony IKEA calls a chair) and then the couch in the living room, which is fine, but getting a bit small for the two of us and leads only to toy-playing temptation at 3 a.m. It's not a win-win.

So last week, when the kid came down with a bronchial virus, I sat up with him in the chair for as long as my glutes could stand it and then I decided that enough was enough. I was not going to spend another minute in that chair or another night in the living room. We were going to sleep in the bed. I sent Stu to the couch and the kid and I took over the master bedroom. And wonder of wonder miracles of miracles, instead of screaming like a banshee like he has every other time we've tried to wrastle him in between our sheets, the kid was overjoyed by the prospect of sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's bed.

I was overjoyed as well and was enraptured by the notion of sleeping with my boy in my arms, snuggling the night away, reveling in our bonding experience. That is, until he turned into the sleepover buddy you just wished would go to sleep already. Allow me, if you will, to run down what occurred between 2-4:30 a.m.:

- No less than 17 sips of water from the glass I keep on my night table, after each of which he said, "Just this one, Mommy. And then I be all done."
- No less than 12 decisions to switch sides with me which entailed his sliding off of whatever side of the bed he was on and walking to the step stool we keep at the foot of the bed and climbing up into the bed, despite my insistence that we could switch sides without his getting down.
- About 14 renditions of Mr. Golden Sun, complete with requisite arm movements (Thanks for teaching the kid a Barney song, day care. Thanks a lot.).
- One request to turn off the ceiling fan, because "Mommy, it's windy in here. Please turn that off. I don't like the wind. It gets in my hair."
-About 39 requests to fix his pillows and pull up the covers so he could "sleep like a big boy."

And in between all of this, was my constant refrain, "Sweet pea, it's night night time. We need to go to sleep. If you can't go to sleep here, you'll have to go back to your bed. If you'd rather sleep in your bed with Padding Bear (Paddington Bear) and Morris (one of the Wild Things) and Ernie and Bert (self explanatory) and Blue Dog (I think this might be the dog from Blue's Clues, but I can't be sure as it's a generic stuffed animal that happens to be a blue dog, but since Blue is the only blue dog I know of and since Charlie actually named the thing Blue Dog, that's what I'm basing my assumption on), that's fine, but if you want to stay here, you need to close eyes and go to sleep."

Which was always met with an "No, I want to stay here. Okay, Mommy. Close your eyes." Oh, how I wish I could! But I was too busy keeping them open making sure he didn't roll off the bed or maintaining a conversation regarding how it was dark outside because it's night night time. Oh, so you noticed? Go to sleep!

And miraculously, 2-1/2 hours later, he did. And we didn't move or talk until Stu walked in at 7:30. And I couldn't believe how happy I was to wake up with my little goose beside me resting peacefully, without a single cough in hours.


Late Breaking Post-Post News
Color it the fickle finger of fate or a misuse of irony, but as I finished writing that post last night, the kid started crying. As usual, Stu went in and he was barely awake and settled back down in no time. An hour later, the crying began again and Stu could not console him. We believe new molars were the culprit. Regardless, I began sitting with the kid in the chair and the tears stopped and then he began to slide down off my lap.

"Where are you going?" I asked. He pointed towards the door.

"You want to go in the hallway?"

"To Mommy's bed."

Ruh roh.

Yes, I spent the night with him. Sometimes there's no other way. Amazingly he didn't utter one word between 11 p.m. and 6:45 a.m. except to request that he accompany me to the bathroom somewhere around 3 a.m. I thought I would leave him sleeping in the bed, but he caught me trying to jump ship and asked if he could come with me. So he stood quietly in the bathroom until I was finished and went right back to sleep when we returned to the bed.

I'd say it was all very sweet, and part of it was, but the morning unfolded in a disastrous fashion which makes me a bit fearful for tonight. Such is life with a toddler, right? Or maybe tonight, instead of The Rolling Stones, it will be John Lennon and it will be (Just Like) Starting Over. Or would that be "sleeping over?"

Oh, The Horror.

Consider this post a special program in honor of Halloween in which I preempt my usual chronicling of the life and times of the kid as if this were a broadcast of It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown. While I may, at a later date, write about the great costume debate of 2011 which pits Pooh Bear against SpongeBob, at the moment I feel the need to reflect on something truly horrifying, like, um, writing guides. Stay with me. It's frightening. I swear.

You see, I started this blog because several people seem to enjoy my tales of parenthood. But I also started it because I love to write. Unfortunately, I don't do it nearly as much as I should. And when you’ve spent a lot of your life plink-plunking around writing and not actually doing it, which usually translates into having taken a million fiction workshops and reading a billion writing guides, the consideration of purchasing yet another book that might tell you how to write, all the while secretly hoping it will just make you write, is frightful. It’s like being addicted to diet books and imagining that just reading them will cause the pounds to plummet directly from your hips. It’s scary shit.

Recently, during a rare bookstore visit, I wandered over to the writing reference section. I say “wander” as if I had involuntarily drifted off of a predetermined course. Of course, this was not the case. There I found myself, yet once again, among the shelves stacked with writing guide on top of writing guide when my eyes fell upon what looked like a lovely hardcover with a picturesque white country house and its cellar doors on the front. The book? Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Scary shit.

But now that I’ve read it, not scary shit all. Actually, totally and utterly delightful shit. I must admit that I have a great love for Stephen King. He is one of the most prolific writers of our time and one of our best storytellers. I think he’s a genius and I admire him immensely.

Unfortunately, I’ve never read one of his books.

Why? Because I am the world's biggest wuss. I can barely walk down the horror book aisle in a store, let alone actually read one of them and don’t even mention watching a horror movie. I’m still traumatized by the few I’ve inadvertently seen or been forced to watch. And at  41 years of age, I am still afraid of the dark.

I believe this fear can be traced back to 1977 when the ads for Suspiria caused me to burst into howling tears. I knew the commercial by heart back then: the back of a lady’s head with glowing, luxurious hair, and then the voiceover: “Roses are red, violets are blue, something something something That will be the end of YOUUUU!!!!” And then the head turns around and it’s a freaking skull in a wig, which is hideously disconcerting. You’d think I would have seen it coming since I saw that commercial on an almost daily basis. Why did I never change the channel? Did I constantly mistake the head for one of a Breck Girl? It’s possible that because it was 1977, channel changing entailed actually getting up off the couch and walking to the television, which would place me in much closer proximity to the offending head. God only knows why I continued to torment myself, but my phobia of horror movies—and I mean phobia as in I’m not just afraid to watch them, but their entire existence sends me into a hyperbolic panic—was cemented that year and only grew worse as I got older.

In the sixth grade, dressed as a lawyer for a Halloween party (don’t ask), I had to brave Friday the 13^th, Part 2. I thought I could just lower my head so that the brim of my lawyer’s hat (It was 1982, every business woman worth her salt hat a great hat) would shield me from the television, but I inevitably couldn’t stop myself from looking up at the worst possible moments. This marks the day that I first saw what I fear more than anything in a horror movie: decapitation. No, I didn’t really enjoy the two kids having sex who got skewered together by a stake coming up through the bottom of the bed and subsequently, both of their bodies, but it was the loss of heads that really got me.

Then there was the 8^th grade school Halloween party which I had been planning not to attend for years in advance (I went to the same school nursery through twelfth grade. Again, don’t ask.), knowing full well that it involved the viewing of a horror movie. However, my near decade-long plan was thwarted when my mother made me attend as punishment for walking home from school that day, instead of taking the bus, which I did in order to purposefully miss a ballet class I didn’t feel like going to. I was forced to watch Vincent Price’s Theater of Blood, in which a disgruntled actor kills theater critics in various manners from the works of Shakespeare. You would think I could have overlooked the gore in appreciation of all the literary references. And you would be wrong. Very wrong. Included in the seven or eight gruesome and grisly deaths, there was indeed a decapitation and one that still plagues me. While a couple is in bed, good old Vincent cuts off the man’s head with some ginormous gardening shears (And I cannot even begin to imagine what Shakespeare play this is from.). The wife merely rolls over accusing her hubbie of snoring again until she wakes up in a Godfather-horse-head-in-bed pool of blood, shakes her husband to see if he’s all right, and wouldn’t you know it, his head rolls of the bed. Now when I sleep next to my husband, I sometimes become too petrified to move, afraid that his head might spontaneously detach from his body.

And then there’s the classic, Nightmare on Elm Street, which was the movie of choice at a 9^th grade slumber party. By this time I was wise enough to remove myself from the room entirely so I didn’t even see a single scene of this one, but I’m still hideously afraid of Freddy Kruger. A few years ago, I had a dream in which Freddy appeared as a Rastafarian dressed in a spiffy white tennis ensemble, adeptly playing doubles on my high school’s courts. One would think that would make me warm up to the guy—no burn pun intended—but no. Still petrified.

There was also Death Ship. I don’t even know where this piece of crap came from. No one’s ever heard of it. I think my friend’s brother had it so we thought it would be a bright idea to pop it on the old VCR. What was I thinking? It was about some haunted World War II Nazi boat by which some poor survivors from a boating debacle were rescued. I recall something of someone drowning in a sea of skulls, but not just plain skeleton skulls. They were somehow green and goopy. As if plain, dry skulls weren’t enough.

And the piece de scaredy cat resistance: the TV movie version of The Shining with Steven Weber. I could never get near the Jack Nicholson version so I thought I’d try this one thinking I couldn’t possibly be scared of the guy from Wings. Apparently, I was wrong. I had an utter meltdown during a scene in a room with skeletal heads on pedestals or some such vision. I’ve never been so happy for a commercial break in my life.

So now I’m reading this memoir and I am falling in love with Stephen King more and more with every page. However, the one night, while I was in the living room reading a section of his book on how to write strong dialog in a novel, I started to become obsessed with the notion that there might be a severed head in our refrigerator (Which is not even from a Stephen King book. That’s a hideous Friday the 13^th, Part 2 flashback in action). I ran upstairs to read in bed with Stu, but he’d already gone to sleep and I had to get in bed in the dark and there I was, convinced, yet once again, that his head had been cut off, just waiting for me to discover its detachedness.

Maybe I was right. Writing guides are HORRIFYING.

Was it Professor Plum in the Study with the Rope or Was it Thie Kid in the Music Room with his Right Hook?

The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent.

During a dinner last week, from behind his plate of pizza, the kid, in an unsolicited confession, calmly stated, "Acally [translation: "actually"], Mommy, I did not hit Larry for Beluga. Did push Sally Mae. I did."

Stu and I looked at each other. We'd become accustomed to this aspect of toddler communication. There are full sentences. Sometimes impressive full sentences. But they are not always full sentences that bear any relation to sentences that make any sense in our adult reality. So, as we do numerous times a day, we went to work deciphering and deducing.

Larry is the kid's cubby-mate. Stu and I had believed Larry to be a ghost child as his parents never seem to pick up any of the art work that has piled up in the cubby and I'd actually [translation: "acally"] never seen Larry until one morning last week when his mother brought him into school in a rush of stress, announcing, "I'm the worst mother ever! I forgot to pack Larry's lunch! Is there anything you can give him?" The teachers reminded her that there was a Rite Aid across the street, to which she replied "I can't go there! I have to be at the airport in 20 minutes!" Luckily there was instant Mac and Cheese on hand for hungry Larry. Between the abandoned artwork and the lack of lunch, I was rather unpleased when it turned out that whoever picked Larry up from school one day last week took home the kid's rain jacket. I was quite certain it was never to be seen again, but I have to give the Larry family credit as the jacket was returned to the cubby the next morning. So they've got that going for them.

Sally Mae is another classmate of the kid's whom I'd heard by name, but had not seen until Charlie pointed her out at the playground this weekend. She is a doe-eyed brunette with soft, straight bangs that hang perfectly above her round, chestnut eyes. I had to wonder how the kid could push this chick. I imagine if any harm came to her, woodland creatures of all species would have rushed to her aid.

As for Beluga, in addition to being a caviar, to which I'm quite certain the kid was not referring as I can barely get him to eat anything more exotic than organic chicken strips, it is part of the song Baby Beluga which I believed to be sung in music class. 

Now, how to piece it all together: did the kid acally hit Larry during an all too exuberant rendition of "Baby Beluga?" Did Sally Mae sidle her way in between Larry and the kid's fray? The kid knows he's not allowed to hit. He's been carried up to his room on more than one occasion for pulling his arm back, curling is fingers into a fist, and all out clocking me in the face. If you ask the kid what happens when you hit, he will say, "Daddy comes and takes you upstairs. Do not visit Mommy and no playing. Have to say 'I'm sorry, Mommy,'" which the kid does in the smallest whisper imaginable. He knows the rules. It's just a matter of when he chooses to apply them.

So did he hit Larry and did he say that he did "not" hit Larry as a preemptive cautionary maneuver? As of yet, there are no rules about pushing as we've never acally seen the kid push anyone. And what is so important about "Baby Beluga?" Personally, Raffi makes me want to shove a few people around, but the kid really digs "Baby Beluga." Maybe he loves it too much? There are questions here. Questions without answers.

The mystery-solving forces of The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and Scooby Doo combined could not crack this one. I had no choice but to approach the kid's music teacher the next morning. I explained the confession. Her first response was "Baby Beluga? We only sing that song during the summer sessions. Charlie hasn't heard me sing that since July. And no, I didn't see him hit or push anyone. Does he ever hit anyone? I can't imagine that!" In the immortal words of John Bender, "You wanna come over some time?"

Alas, a full-time working mother's time is never her own. By the time I finished my discussion with the music teacher, I had to flee in order to catch my subway and acally get to work.

At this time, the investigation is still open. Anyone with any leads should contact the proper authorities immediately.

Make 'Em Laugh: Of Wheat Bread and Quesidillas

Yesterday, I came to the realization that toddlerhood might be my undoing. After a rather tumultuous morning involving the now-usual chases around the house as I wave a sweatshirt in front of the kid as if he were a bull I am hoping will charge right towards me (after which I hope that he will magicially fling his arms into the shirt rendering him ready to go to day care), and the attempt to manhandle him into a stroller, which is followed by the walk to day care, during which I am forced to field numerous requests to go the other way or go into the drycleaners  or hand him water and then take away the water and then put on his sunglasses and then take off his sunglasses and then hand him his lunchbag and then pick it up when it falls of his lap, after all of this, as I was finally walking down the street, alone, towards work, I found myself cursing, aloud and loudly, at my Droid, which among numerous other annoyances had begun to refuse to hang up any calls. An out loud declaration of "You've got to be kidding me!" was followed by numerous expletives as I poked and shook my phone in a repeated huff of exasperation. I knew then that parenting a toddler was getting the best of me.

However, even though Stu and I have agreed that this part of parenthood "sucks," it is not to say it is without humor, even in the midst of sheer frustration. My two favorite examples of late are as follows:

Wheatbreadgate

The kid's latest whine-fest usually revolves around requesting numerous pieces of wheat bread between 6:00pm when he gets home from day care and 7:00pm when we have dinner. It's a constant and grating whine that is only quelled by giving the kid two small pieces of wheat bread at a time. For the past week or so, I have given in to this request with great fervor as it keeps that bewitching hour mildly calm and frankly, I don't really care if he eats several small pieces of wheat bread before dinner. People do it at restaurants all the time, right? Plus, we don't go through loaves of bread fast enough before they begin to mold, so I feel like the kid's new habit is really helping us avoid wasting money. Stu, however, felt that we should attempt to put a stop to this habit, which, if I really thought it through, was perhaps, for the best.

So the other night, Stu and I stood together. A united front against extraneous wheat bread consumption. I gave the kid his two small pieces of wheat bread and we said, "That's it until dinner. You can eat when it's dinner time." Of course, much whining began. And continued. And continued. 

"Want a piece of bread. Want two ones. Want two of them. Want all the breads." Yes, it sounds cute. No, it's not. Stu and I remained strong. We mustered our courage and repeated our mantras: "That's it until dinner. You can eat when it's dinner time." The kid's face grew longer and longer and the whines grew whinier and whinier.

Then, in the midst of the dramatic whining, Stu opened the basement door to head downstairs to obtain one of his nightly beers (or at least feign the need to retrieve something that resided anywhere but wherever someone was repeatedly asking for bread). The minute the door closed behind him and the kid and I could hear his feet stepping down the stairs, the kid's eyes lightened and widened and his face brightened.

"Mommy!" he whispered with a quickened, quiet voice, "Mommy! Want some bread! Get the bread! Right now!"

Seriously?

"Mommy! Go get the bread! Go get the bread right now!"

I barely knew what to say or do. There was a part of me that wanted to just get the damned bread already and part of me that knew that if I broke the spousal united front, it would be bad for all involved. Me, the kid, Stu. There were all kinds of implications. And I too, like the kid, knew that I only had a matter of seconds in which to take action.

The kid pleaded again, "Mommy! Right now! You could get the bread right now!"

I took the high road just in time for Stu to return to the kitchen to hear me say, "No, buddy. We have to wait until dinner. No more bread for tonight."

"What's up?" Stu asked as he came back from the basement.

"Oh, nothing. Just asking for more bread." As if.

The Quesidilla Crisis

On a tired Sunday evening, Stu and I were having the "what's for dinner?" conversation. No one was up for cooking (read: Stu was not up for cooking and I never cook) so clearly, take out was the only option. Mexican from the joint across the street was decided upon, but there was much discussion as to whether the kid was also getting take out or we were going to make him something in-house. We agreed that some chicken strips was a perfectly suitable and less expensive option than the cheese quesidilla from the restaurant. Unfortunately, the memory of that decision fell out of my head shortly thereafter.

While Stu went to the restaurant to order and wait for the food (a task for which he always volunteers as it allows him approximately 20 minutes of alone-beer time on a somewhat regular basis), the kid and I hightailed it to the playground, where we had a lovely time. Our walk home, however, wasn't all that lovely as the kid melted down when I wouldn't allow him to run back towards the playground in order to watch an ambulance back into the fire station across the street, after which he prolonged his meltdown by not settling on which side of the street he wanted to walk on and had me carry him across said street numerous times before I told him to just pick a side and stick with it.

I believed that the most brilliant distraction from all of this melting down would be to discuss the dinner for which we were in the process of returning home.

"What's for dinner, Mommy?"

"A cheese quesidilla! Your favorite!"

The tears magically disappeared and we practically ran all the way home. We burst through the door expecting to see a great big, delicious cheese quesidilla on the table, only to find Daddy cutting up some chicken strips.

The tears. They came back. They came back in great numbers. Greater numbers than before. And in between each sob, was a woeful wail, "I DON'T WANT CHICKEN!!!! I WANT A QUESIDILLA!" 

The guilt was unbearable. It was all my fault! I was the one who had forgotten about the chicken strips! And now my child! My poor, miserable child! My heart was breaking over his lack of a quesidilla!

I knelt down beside my weeping child and launched into a pathetic mea culpa.

"I'm so sorry my sweet pea! Mommy made a big mistake! I thought there was going to be a quesidilla, but there isn't one. I am so sorry! Mommy made a mistake!"

Somehow, through his wails, he managed to let us know that he would eat the chicken if--and only if--it was accompanied by some bread and cheese. Needless to say, I acquiesced and the remainder of the evening progressed rather uneventfully.

That is, until I plugged in the kid's monitor after putting him to bed, only to hear the following:

"Bert, Mommy made a big mistake today. I DID NOT have a quesidilla for dinner. I had chicken. That is NOT a quesidilla. That is CHICKEN. NOT a quesidilla. Mommy made a mistake."

Can't believe my kid ratted me out to a muppet.

The Stroller Chronicles: Parts 1, 2 & 3

Toddlerhood just wouldn't seem complete if it didn't involve major stroller difficulties. And I don't mean challenges with the actual stroller (although I really need to lodge a complaint with Maclaren about how much trouble I have locking that Triumph), I mean struggles that involve fruitless attempts to actually get the kid in his most used mode of transportation.

Part 1

On a wet Friday, I had taken the day off of work and Stu had asked me to do the evening day care pick up, which was more than fine with me because  it's far more pleasant to be the picker upper than the dropper offer, and I am the designated dropper offer. The kid is actually delightful at drop off and I feel extraordinarily lucky that he gives me hugs and kisses on demand and then on cue, as soon as I say "Okay, Mommy has to go to work now," he scrambles out of my arms and gives a toodle-oo wave as he wanders off towards his teacher and some train tracks. But at pick up, the kid run towards you at break neck speed with a smile on his face that says something along the lines of "OMG I didn't know you were going to be here! We haven't seen each other an AGES! You must have crossed desserts and jungles, traveled over mountains and through valleys, across continents and oceans to reach me and I can't believe how lucky I am to see your face!"

So I'm more than happy to be on pick up duty, whenever possible. However, based on last Friday evening's course of events, I'm going to have to rethink the whole thing. As we strolled home through the Italian Market, which is mostly covered, I noticed increasing rainfall. As we passed by the vendors, I said to the kid, "You know what, kid? It's really raining. When we're done walking through the market, we're going to have to put the rain cover on the stroller." From below, I heard a little "No want to cover." I gave my usual reply--the reply I give when I'm attempting to avoid a conflict because I know I'm going to say "no" when it actually comes down to it. "We'll see!"

We'll see indeed. When we got out from under the safety of the Italian Market covering I made my first attempt to attach the stroller cover. The kid was having none of it. There was kicking and screaming and pulling of the cover, the stroller, my hair, and anything else in arms' reach. I tried the always-unreasonable method of reasoning, "But it's raining, sweet pea. You're going to get wet. We have to use the cover." Which was met with more screaming and kicking and an admission that the kid didn't actually care if he got wet. In fact, he went so far as to ask, "Is Mommy getting wet?" I couldn't lie. Of course I was getting wet--and more wet with every passing moment that we stood in the street. "Well, sweetie, Mommy is getting wet because I have to walk you home and there is no cover for me," (lest I go for the one handed stroll while holding an umbrella which always proves unsuccessful). This was a poorly chosen response. "Nooooo cover!! Charlie want to get wet too!!" Crap.

I was suddenly inspired. This is it, I thought to myself. This is my moment to try my recently read methods of Dr. Karp! He would, of course, save me. He had been the light in the dark of the newborn months. He would again be my shining beacon of hope. My light saber against the Darth Vader of toddlerhood! I looked around and surveyed how many passerby were in earshot as actually putting Dr. Karp's prescribed method of quelling a tantrum and getting what you want into action entails sounding like a moron in public. His point is that talking to your kid in his suggested method which will allegedly stop tantrums in their tracks is likely far less embarrassing than the results of said public tantrum if it continues. So I swallowed my pride and tried to belt out, "No want cover! Charlie mad mad mad! You no want cover! Want to get wet! Charlie want to get wet!"

I'd tried this at home and it's actually worked, but here, out in the open, out in public, next to the traffic and under the rain, it didn't seem to be working at all. At home, the kid would pause and smile when I started Karp's suggested "toddler-ese." Outside, nothing. Nada. Zilch. Well, at least nothing effective. There was still plenty of screaming and pulling of breakable things. Maybe I wasn't doing it right. According to Karp, you have to hit the "sweet spot" which means you have to almost match your kid's level of intensity, but not quite. I knew I'd have to try again. I tried and the only thing that happened this time was that the kid became more enraged, began to remove the stroller straps which keep him oh so nicely strapped into the stroller and began an attempt at escaping from the stroller. Luckily, his feet and and the foot rest were so wet, he couldn't get any traction in order to mount his escape. I'd have to try this again.

And as soon as I opened my mouth to do so, I knew I wasn't going to. I chose bursting into tears as a more appropriate method of dealing with the situation. It's likely that I matched the level of my kid's intensity, but perhaps not in the way Dr. Karp had intended.

Realizing we were now both soaked and not any closer to home, I stood up, wiped my tears as if I were in a scene in a great triumph-of-the-human-spirit Oscar-winning movie, folded up the stroller cover, shoved it into a bag, and turned back to the kid pronouncing, "Fine. You want to get wet? Get wet. But you had better sit down for the entire ride or I am getting that cover."

The kid paused. He looked at what I hoped was my extremely serious face (although perhaps it was hard to tell under all the water streamed across my face) and gingerly placed his wet buttocks back in the seat. We walked home without another word and without any attempts at escape.

Part 2

The following Monday morning, was, until 7:55 a.m., progressing beautifully. The kid got up with nary a "No, Mommy! Go away! Charlie still sleeping," which happens with such an alarming frequency that I'm already dreading adolescence. He picked out his clothes without a fuss, scooted down the stairs with great alacrity, inhaled his oatmeal in record time, and played independently as I ran around the house in my usual five-minutes-to-day-care-departure shuffle.

I chirped my usual "Okay bud! Time to get in the stroller!" The kid smiled at me devilishly. "Charlie want to run!" I wasn't ready for a fight, so I thought it would be most brilliant of me to turn his desire to exercise into a game that would put him right where I want him. "Okay, bud! Let's run! Let's run to the stroller!" Oh, the subtlety. Oh, the nuance. Oh, the genius.

Oh, the level of frustration that began to build as I chased him around the house. By the fifth lap I was chanting "C'mon, bud! We have to get in the stroller!" to absolutely no avail whatsoever. And when he decided he was done with his cardio and it was time for some toning in the form of carefully crawling between all the chair legs tucked underneath the dining room table, I knew it was time to just pick the kid up.

"Nononononononooooooo!!!!! Want to go under the table! Want to go under the table!" I thought about Dr. Karp's advice. I gave it a half hearted whirl and realized that recovering from Friday's incident, I just didn't have successful toddler communication in me. I tried to plop the kid in the stroller and he pulled that ridiculously annoying straight body thing wherein children avoid having their tushies meet the seat in which you are attempting to place their bottoms. That's when my raised voice began to ring out over the kid's screaming. But it was when he flipped his whole body over and threw his stomach onto the stroller so that the unlocked stroller (of course, because I can never get that damn McLaren locked) rolled away from his body and he almost landed face down on the hard wood floor that I really lost it.

I have never yelled at the kid in this way before. But sometimes the pressures of the relentless fighting with an unreasonable and unpredictable kid is combined with the pressure to get out the door to get to work on time and the realization that your wish is rarely ever their command and you just might lose is a recipe for some old school yelling.

"CHARLIE!! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW!!"

That didn't do it, so I did put one of Dr. Karp's tactics to use. The old clap and growl. Usually the kid laughs when I do it (literally, you clap and then growl like a bear), but Mama Bear had had it, so he looked at me in a somewhat perplexed fashion instead of giggling.

"MOMMY IS MAD MAD MAD!" This is actually a Dr. Karp phrase. I believe, however, that I used it out of its correct context.

But you know what? It worked. That kid sat down and didn't squirm once until we were at school. As I posted on Facebook that morning, I didn't feel good about yelling at him, but I did feel good about getting work on time.

Part 3

The other morning, the kid was playing with his toys as I was washing dishes. I heard his little footsteps padding around the living room as he announced, "Mommy is mad mad mad." I rushed over to him to say, "Oh, sweetie, Mommy is not mad today. I was only mad the other day when you weren't a good listener."

"I am a good listener."

Yeah, okay. Um, NOT.

But sometimes, he is a good listener. On this morning, the kid took my hand and practically escorted me to the stroller. He waited next to my legs as I readied the straps. He even backed into the seat without a single prompt.

You take what you can get.

How to Catch an Early Subway. Or, How to Get to Work on Time. Or, the Rain Jacket Sweatshirt Debacle

It goes something like this: 

The kid: Mommy, do uppies all the way to 'cool (read: carry me to school). No want to sit in the stroller. No want to sit in the poopy.

Me: Do you have poopy in your diaper right now?

The kid: Um, yeah. 

The kid nods his head energetically. I stand behind the kid and pull his paints waistband and diaper away from his waist to inspect the diaper for any poopy. I have my suspicions as there is no foul odor emanating from this area. And as I suspected, there is no poopy. However, there is effort and grimacing so I wait a few minutes. You never know when it's coming. Sometimes it's seconds away and sometimes it's moments. Sometimes it's a full 24 hours away and then you're in trouble.

I wait.

I look at the clock and wait another minute. Of course, today,  I have a million things I have to do immediately upon arrival at work. I so need to make the early subway this morning, which isn't really early as it's the one that gets me to work on time, but it's early in that it's the one I can only catch if I hightail it to 'cool, speed through unpacking school accoutrements, and do a quick uppies and headie down without much conversation with the teacher. C'mon poopy! Poopy c'mon (which can be sung to the tune of Hang on Sloopy.)!

Me: Okay, bud. I don't think poopy is coming. Let's put on our jacket.

I reach for a light rain jacket.

The kid: Noooooo!!! Don't want to wear that jacket!! Want to wear the other one!!

Me: Which one?

The kid: The other one! The sweatshouurt!

Me: The sweatshirt? It's like 100% humidity out there. And it's going to rain. Let's wear the rain jacket.

The Kid: Nooooo!!!! Don't want that one! The other one! The other one!

Me: But look! Mommy is wearing a rain jacket just like yours! That's silly!

I make a play for getting an arm in a sleeve. The kid shakes me loose with a howling "Nooooooooooooo!"

Me: All right. Fine. Wear the sweatshirt. Get sweaty. See if I care!

Giggles abound as the kid puts on his unbeknownst-to-me-until-this-morning beloved sweatshirt.

The kid: Do zipper by self!

Oh, christ. I'm all for independence and self sufficiency, but we are bordering on being late enough that I'm going to miss that early-but-not-early subway. But, Happiest Toddler on the Block says we have to let the little cave-toddlers/pre-historic beasts feel confident. Oh..all right! Damn it!
 

I watch the kid struggle until he caves. "Mommy do it!" All right!! We are zippered! "Time for the stroller bud!"

"No!" And we're off! And not off as in we're in the stroller and leaving for school, but off as in commencing a mad dash across every inch of the first floor of our not very big row house until the kid runs into the farthest back corner of the kitchen at the end of the house. There's no escaping now! Except that it is very difficult to pick up a kid who has tucked himself into a corner and refuses to let you get anywhere near his armpits so you can pick him up. I squirrel my hands under there, manage to turn him around and carry him--arms flailing and legs swinging--to the stroller. Much to my surprise, he gets in without a struggle.
 

And then...
 

The kid: Noooooo! No want this jacket! Want the other one!

Me: The other one? The rain jacket?
The kid (through whiny tears): Yeeessssss.
 

A ha! This is the jacket I wanted him to wear in the first place. Victory! But time! There's no time!

Me: Okay, you can wear the other jacket, but no getting out of the stroller! We're staying in the stroller! You got that kid? We will change your jacket while you are in the stroller. Here we go.

Not really sure what I was thinking but via some miracle akin to the Flashdance bra removal maneuver of 1983, I wrangle the sweatshirt off and shove arms into sleeves and tuck the rain jacket in between buckles and seatbacks until it is securly fastened.

And then...

The kid: Nooooo! Want the other jacket!!

You have got to be kidding me.

The kid: No want this jacket!

Me: Well, that's the jacket you're wearing. We're not changing again.

The kid: NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! NO WANT THIS JACKET!

Me: You want the other jacket? Here it is!

I hand the kid the jacket.

Me: How about you just HOLD the sweatshirt?

Kid: Yeah!

Huh. How about that. And off we go!

On the way to 'cool, I ask the kid if he would like some water. It is indeed 100% humidity and as sweat is pooling in every place imaginable on my body, he has a sweatshirt splayed across his lap. He's probably dehydrating. He wants water, but I am by no means allowed to remove the sweat shirt from his lap. I can barely hold on to the stroller, the sweat has made my palms so slick, and he's practically under a blanket.

Whatevs. I caught the early subway with about 16 seconds to spare. Probably because I never took his rain jacket off when I left him at 'cool.

It's the Little Things

To file under Never Thought I'd Be THAT Parent:

Today at the playground, I almost had a seizure over the fact that my kid proactively played with another boy. Subsequently, I nearly collapsed upon the cold hard concrete in a complete rapture over the fact that he successfully climbed up one of those spiral poll things, announcing "Mommy, I can do this!" with each step. The kid has always been one of those playground lurkers who watches all from afar and well, has not shown much evidence of being blessed with a lot of physical prowess. So these small triumphs make me want to rent a billboard on the local highway announcing these accomplishments. The level of my pride today is akin to the highly embarrassing moment when I was accompanying him to a "Little Tumblers" gym class when he was 17 months old and I burst into tears as we held on to a parachute and marched in a circle with all of the other kids and parents singing "The Wheels on the Bus." (Re: this link, maintaining my "image of a mom" status, I have no idea who the GiggleBellies are, but who could resist such a name, or the tripped out, funkified version of one of the most boring kids songs known to man.) Dork that I am, I could not believe that my little guy was willingly participating in this activity and actually just doing it, smiling and singing the whole way. Like a real live kid. That I made. Amazing.

I'm not sure if my self-esteem is so low that it never occurred to me that a little fella I created could possibly achieve anything or it's just that it's so rewarding to see the creature that lived inside of you for nine months participating in the world. But either way, I have given new meaning to the term "proud mamma.

Case in point: our daycare sends each kid home with a daily written report of everything that transpired in your kid's hours away from home, from nap time to amounts of food ingested to numbers of diaper changes and the diapers' contents. Then at the end of each sheet are teachers' comments on your kid's behavior and activities. Needless to say, I am overwhelmed by the following reports from his first week at school (don't ask me how many times I've read each one of these. and don't bother to ask me if I'm keeping them in a file for all eternity. you already know the answer):

• "Charlie is using full sentences when he talks to his teachers. He shared his toys all day. He loved playing on the playground."*
• "Charlie did a wonderful job playing with another buddy during free play! He is doing a great job sharing with all the Beetle Bug Friends"**
• "Charlie was very happy to be at school. He engaged in circle time and played a running game with friends at the park."***

* I am getting weepy as I type this. I kid you not.

**As you may have already discerned for yourself, Beetle Bugs is the name of his class.

***When I first read this report, I thought the handwriting said a "winning" game. I asked myself what kind of game 2-1/2 year olds were playing at which they could actually win since my kid barely knows what a game is, and then I leaped right to: "My kind won a game!?!? Whaaaahooo!! Oh yeah!!!" I then I thought better of all of that and figured out that it said "running." I'm still proud of the running. Even if there was no winning involved.

And yes folks, I am even proud that today at the park, the kid pooped. It runs that deep. Too bad I forgot to bring diapers with me. Not so proud of that.