Reflected

People are always saying that kids are great "mirrors". That they reflect back at your exactly who you truly are. Yeah, I get that. But then sometimes all you have to do is watch The Office. And then I realize some days I parent just like Jan.

Like sometimes, I'm mildly annoyed at my kid.

And sometimes I find good coping mechanisms for dealing with it.

But sometimes he really starts to get on my nerves.

And it's hard to keep my cool, especially in public. It takes quite a lot of effort.

Because really I just want to yell or break things or sell him for yarn money.

But of course, even thinking that, I end up feeling like a completely terrible mother.

Because I should be proud of my little goober. He tries so hard.

But then I remember ... he's three. ... though, in that respect, not completely dissimilar to Michael G. Scott.

Good Old Fashioned Hunger Strike

Last night we had a wonderful demonstration of non-violent resistance at our house. 

Chris decided that it was time for underpants. He's sick of diapers. I'm ambivalent about it. But he's sick of diapers. ... I would dare you to ask who actually changes the majority of diapers in this house, but we're not supposed to keep score.**

Anyway, they bought a set of Pixar big boy underwear yesterday. He was super excited about it until Dad told him they were meant to replace his diaper. Then he freaked. He was afraid he was going to pee in them, and he HATES getting pee on himself

So there was some crying. And there was some refusal to get off the potty. Sometimes when we're hanging out at home, we've just been taking away his diaper and telling him to use the potty if he "gets the feeling", which was great for a while. Then he realized he doesn't have to think about it if he just sits on the potty the whole time. Just in case. So last night, after about an hour of just sitting and refusing to get up, I told him it was time to eat dinner, and he wasn't allowed to 1) eat naked or 2) eat on the potty. He had to put on underpants.

And he said no. And he refused to eat dinner. And at bedtime we put him to bed. Without dinner. And he seemed perfectly at peace with his decision.


He almost refused to eat breakfast the next morning, because we told him he had to put on underpants. But I really really loves Frosted Mini Wheats.

And now Daddy is back at work, so I've been promoted to Underpants Police. It didn't come with a pay raise, or an office.

Also, I dare you to Google Image search "Underpants Police".




I still let him have snack time sitting on the potty. I'm not a monster.




**Just kidding. It's me.

Three ... Three is a magic number.

The child is three. Whoever came up with "terrible twos" must have given away their child at 2 years 11 months, because two doesn't hold a candle to three. Three is its own form of torture. Its own personal circle of hell. Its own wing of the psych ward.

But at the same time, he's so freaking cute.

It's like he's got free will now, and he knows it. He can say no, and argue his point. He can give a reason why he doesn't wat to do something, or why he did something wrong. He can say he doesn't want what's for dinner, or that he doesn't want to go somewhere. He talks about how he "wishes" daddy was home or "wishes" mummy would stay in his room during nap time. He can change his mind, which he himself finds fascinating and hilarious. He realizes his mistakes, like when he thought one thing but it turned out to be wrong, or if he forgot something or didn't notice something. "I didn't NOTICE them!!!" he yells and laughs, when he sees someone at the playground he hadn't previously acknowledged. 

And all that is fine. Really, it's the whining. [note to the OED: I propose an alternate spelling for "whining": "whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiining". It's more onomatopoetic.] Apparently the correct response to any question, request, or general statement is "but WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY????????!"

Typing it actually raises my blood pressure slightly.

And it's not just the question. In the morning, when he asks Why, I can answer "because blah blah blah". But by 5:00pm, the only answer I have patience for is "because I effing said so!!!" It's a patience thing. And the sound. I read once that whining in a toddler is like crying in a pre-verbal baby. It's just a way of communicating. But I have to ask: why would a child make a noise that drives a parent close to homicide? That doesn't seem evolutionary beneficial. 

The funny part is that an hour or so away from him, I have trouble remembering why it's so terrible. Even now -- he's been playing adorably with a neighbor kid for nearly an hour, leaving me free to write this whole post, and I can't remember why I wanted to throttle him this morning. But I know when we get home, he's going to say something that me want to sell him on craigslist.