'Hey, Big Boy' Bed

Charlie has been sleeping on the floor for the past month, really since we got home from Christmas at my Mom's. Yes, he has a bed. It's a toddler bed that still uses his old crib mattress, and it is not comfortable at all. It does not surprise me that the carpeting on the floor gives him more cushion.

We finally decided to splurge and bought him a big boy mattress. The toddler bed converts into a full bed, which is cool, but kind of weird. I was a twin mattress girl until after college and this whole thing feels odd, almost dirty, like I'm pushing my own son toward, well, sex. I know, I know, he's only 3 1/2, and it's just a mattress. But why else does one need a bed larger than a twin unless A) you're a large person, or B) you share, or hope to share, that bed with someone.

We were awaiting the delivery of the bed and Brian decided to take Charlie on a sheet purchasing expedition; mistake #1. He took him to Ross Dress for Less, which is kind of like a ghetto Marshall's or TJ Maxx; mistake #2. It's the place you go for candles, picture frames, maybe underwear (if they still have the tags), or socks, but sheets? And not just any sheets, Charlie wanted pink or purple sheets, his favorite colors.

Upon their return, Charlie proudly showed me his purple satin sheets, as well as his pink satin ones with Playboy bunnies on them. Brian smirked, 'Charlie wanted them, he picked them out all by himself.' Wow, cool. I tried to mask my distaste for Charlie's benefit but I just couldn't do it.

Honey, you couldn't have redirected him to the cozy flannel sheets, or told him that these were the wrong size? 'But they were on sale', was his response. My husband has never bought something because it was on sale in his life. I'm not sure why he chose Ross Dress for Less as the place to alter his shopping habits.

The purple sheets I could live with, but the pink bunnies were down right offensive. Brian thinks I'm crazy and this whole thing amuses him. Not only do I think it's a sexist double standard; these sheets never would have been purchased if Charlie were a girl. But it's impractical as well; I doubt it's going to be Brian running into the kid's room at 3 am when he slides out of his bed and cracks his head on the floor.

My hesitation about buying Charlie a larger bed may be a bit unfounded, but now we've gone and introduced sexy boudoir accessories into his repertoire. What kind of parents are we? We might as well move to Nevada and open up a brothel.

Okay, so I'm a touch dramatic. I really worried for no reason, the sheets are already off after 1 night. Turns out satin sheets do not properly cover little boys who wiggle (in a non sexual way) in their sleep. As I said to Brian, at least he and the kids guarantee me material to write about. That would be the silver, or satin, lining.

Et tu, Brute?

Gregory started to walk about 2 weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't really progressed past taking a few tentative steps toward me or the coffee table. Usually it's when he wants something, a toy or his sippy cup. He'll either take a few steps then fall to the ground to crawl the rest of the way, or he just stands there with his arms out stretched, whining, crying, and pointing at the object he desires.

I don't mind that he's not walking yet. If I knew what was good for me, I'd strap him to the floor on all fours and never let him stand on 2 legs...ever. Once I have 2 kids walking, things will get way more hectic than they already are. Though Charlie will be happy to have someone who will actually play a real game of chase with him. And think of all the money I'll save not having to use an entire bottle of OxyClean each week to get the grass and mud stains out of the knees of his pants.

Last night, Brian happened upon Gregory hanging out in the living room playing quietly alone. He stood in the shadows observing this sweet moment. You can imagine his surprise when Gregory stood up and walked clear across the room over to the blocks. We're talking at least 5 feet, unassisted, no wobbling. We've started calling him Billy Ray Valentine. Those of you who are fans of Trading Places will appreciate the reference. The rest of you, shame, shame for not seeing one of Eddie Murphy's finest films.

My youngest child is manipulating me, playing upon my sympathies. Yes, I do want him to stay a baby for a little while longer, but not if he's going to lie about it. Charlie didn't start consciously manipulating me until he was well into his terrible two's. With an extra year under his belt and learning straight from the master, I can't even imagine the new heights Gregory will soar to. I'm scared for the future; 2 children walking, 2 children manipulating. Does anyone know of a local Enablers Anonymous chapter?

The Enforcer

As much as Charlie likes to ignore the rules of our household, when he's out in public, he adheres to a surprisingly strict moral code. Like most people, he has a couple of things that really get his goat; 1) littering and 2) not wearing a bike helmet.

At the park he'll walk up and hand me a sticky wrapper, "Here, Mommy, someone littered. They are so bad. They are not respectful at all!" Brian's big on respect and respecting one's elders. He tries to drive that message home every time Charlie calls him a yucky poo poo head or laughs when he's trying to dole out a punishment. Seems it's working but in ways he never expected. Respect for the park, yes; respect for Daddy, no. I think we could be bearing witness to the rise of the next leader of the Earth Liberation Front.

He notices trash everywhere, which is a sad statement; the highway, the parking lot of the grocery store, on walks through our neighborhood. The problem is he wants to clean it all up. I don't want to discourage this kind of behavior, but I'm usually the go between for Charlie and the garbage can. I'm quite accommodating, though I draw the line at chewed gum and old socks.

I understand where he gets the cleanliness from. His dad is part OCD, I pick up trash on hikes, and tend to complain about litter. But the bike helmet thing is a mystery. He's like a Jewish mother traffic cop. When we drive in the car and he sees someone sans helmet, he literally roles down his window and screams at them. Usually something like, "Hey, lady, where's your helmet? Go home and get your helmet." or "Hey, man, you're going to fall and crack your head open and bleed." Of course this generally startles the person so much so that they almost do fall and crack their head open. Those window locks do come in handy.

It makes me laugh because I hear myself and Brian in each utterance. You become keenly aware of how your every action and word can effect your kid. Kind of scary really. I don't dwell too much on it. I just rest easy knowing that our parks are cleaner and the streets are a little safer when the Enforcer is around.

The Face of Evil

I believe the devil has left Georgia and is currently residing in my eldest son. His behavior on all levels, especially toward his brother, has escalated to astronomic proportions; hitting, biting, back talking, complete defiance, and general shit-headed-ness. He fails to show an ounce of remorse for his actions, or any sign of caring about the consequences. Wrap all this up into a 3 day weekend and you can imagine the mix of rage, terror and frustration Brian and I are experiencing. Not unlike an animal snared in a trap from which they can't escape. Though at this point, being locked up in cage sounds pretty good to us.

Brian woke up with the boys Saturday and things were off to a rough start. Charlie decided everything that Gregory picked up was 'his' and would rip it out of his hands. Gregory of course wailed. Taking things away from Gregory was like Charlie's gateway drug, similar to pot. He quickly moved on to hitting his brother whenever he came near one of his toys; we'll call that his cocaine phase. And finally he advanced to the big leagues, crystal meth, or biting his brother. No matter what Brian took away or how loud he yelled, Charlie continued along his path of aggression, smiling the whole way.

I was trying to ignore the piercing screams (from both father and child) by pulling the covers over my head. When that didn't work, I jumped in the shower in an attempt to completely block out the noise. Unfortunately, Charlie's room shares a wall with our bathroom. It was like having a cell next to the torture room at Abu Ghraib.

I padded into the living room where Gregory was playing alone, Brian was sitting in a chair silent, either crying or sweating, and Charlie was half laughing, whimpering in his room. What happened?

Apparently, after breakfast, Brian felt nature's call. He decided things were calm enough that he could take 2 minutes (or 15) to visit the bathroom. As Brian was leaving the room, he quickly glanced back to see Charlie punch/shove his brother in the back, then quickly move around to the front as Gregory was falling, then push him in the chest, sending him backwards. Remember those blow up punching bags from when you were a kid, the ones with the sand in the bottom so they could never fall over, they just kind of smacked the ground then bounced back up. Brian said Gregory looked like that. Which is what lead to their little tete-a-tete in Charlie's bedroom and my early wake up call.

No one was happy and this was the beginning of a long weekend. It went down hill from there. We yelled over and over again, we ignored, we punished, we took away everything Charlie held near and dear to his heart - Caillou, blocks, books, dessert, etc. and yet he continued on his rampage of terror against his brother and us. I sat on my knees, staring into his big brown eyes searching for some softness, some semblance of the adoring little boy he was just last week. But this monster actually seemed to be enjoying the attention as he came back time and time again, doling out more pain.

I spoke to one of Charlie's teachers later on Saturday. She offered up the theory that he's still adjusting to life with a younger brother. Now that Gregory is mobile, wanting to do everything his big brother does, getting into all of his stuff, and demanding just as much attention, Charlie's life as our main focus has truly come to an end. Maybe he'll move out?

I guess he's mad and this pattern of aggression (and deafness) is his way of rebelling. So what can you do? You keep on moving. We're attempting to switch up our approach to things by removing ourselves and Gregory from the room when Charlie acts up (the boy hates to be ignored). No TV until night time, and only then if he's been a good listener and kind to his brother. We hope that tomorrow will be better, that Charlie will be better, and that we'll be better.

Of course as I post this entry, Charlie has been the embodiment of all things good and sweet today, like a little angel who listens, behaves, says please and thank you. Or like a sociopath plotting his next move, lulling his victims into a false sense of calm and ease. I think he has us exactly where he wants us.

Giving Up the Bottle

Week 2 of the New Year's resolution and giving up the bottle is not going so well. No, not me, talk about setting yourself up for failure. It is Gregory's Mommy-imposed resolution to be bottle-free in 2009. He is not happy, in fact, he's down right cranky as he gets used to life without a nipple. It's almost as bad as New Year's 2004 with my South Beach Diet resolution. I gave up my bottle (of red wine) for 2 weeks. Two words come to mind, ornery and bitch, and that is being kind. Just ask my husband. We all learned a valuable lesson about the necessity of having vices in one's life.

So what is my resolution for 2009, you ask? I pilfered it from another blogger. She decided rather than trying to add or subtract a vice, behavior, or food from her life to make her a better, healthier, thinner person, she would start the year off with a new perspective. Whenever she was set to complain about something or someone - kids, mother, health, job, etc - she would pretend like she was living 20 years in the future and try to view the issue from that lens.

For example, say her mother calls her up to tell her that in the recent pictures she posted of the kids, she did not think it appropriate that her eldest son was wielding a large stick. 'Do you always let him play with sticks? That's very dangerous. Someone could lose an eye.'
The 2008, 30 something self would reply with a sarcastic, 'Gee, thanks Mom. Glad you liked the pictures. Would you like me send you copies of the ones where I'm dangling both kids off the bridge by their ankles?
The 2009 reaction from her 50 plus lens, 'Gosh, Mom, I'm so glad you're still alive to talk to. I thought all of that nagging and judging would have surely killed you by now.'

Seriously, I'm finding the new perspective to be valuable. Both of my boys are in 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy mode' right now. Every sentence starts with a whiny 'Mommy' or 'Mama' and ends with both of them grabbing some part of my person and yanking, pulling, twisting, licking.

Charlie was hanging on me yesterday at the grocery store and actually pulled my sweat pants down below my ass. 'Attention Safeway shoppers, we currently have a special on extra marbled Mommy butt roast in the meat department.'

All the attention does warm my heart, though many days, especially after 5 straight hours of listening to 'Mommy, Mommy, Mommy', I find it intrusive and annoying. But if I imagine myself in 20 years, A) I'll be lucky if my boys are even in the same state, let alone house, as me, and B) they probably won't be calling me Mommy anymore. I'm thinking it will either be 'Mother', said with a huff and rolled eyes, or if they've read this blog 'Thankless woman who complains about her children incessantly'.

While I can promise that Gregory will be sticking to his resolution - I threw all of his bottles in the trash January 1st. Mine will be a work in progress. Some days a fresh perspective is welcome and can help us to see things clearly. Other days, it's as inviting as a cold bottle of non-alcoholic beer at the end of a long day.

Round II

Growing up with 2 brothers, I feel they have equipped me well to raise 2 sons. To say my brothers were merciless to me is being kind. Worse than the fat jokes (I topped the scales at 152 lbs in the 6th grade), was their constant engagement in bodily function warfare. Their weapon of choice, farts.

With one of them pinning down my arms and legs, the other would sit upon my head. They usually aimed for the mouth, but the eyes, ears, or nose would suffice. Really anywhere they could fit their ass to unleash the fury that laid within. If there was only one of them, he physically couldn't bring me down (152 lbs had some benefits). So he would come running into the room, fart as loud as possible, then run away, laughing. They called that a 'sneak attack.' Or, if I was on the phone, they would pick up the other line and fart into it. Better known as 'sending an SOS'.

My brothers were like generals, treating fart warfare like it was a science. They studied and charted when they were the most gaseous and how they could use that to their advantage. Years of research proved that when they farted into my older brother's Planet of the Apes garbage can, the smell had more staying power. They even figured out which specific foods my mother cooked would result in the most noxious smell. Incidentally it was sausages and scalloped potatoes in the early years and today, wings and dark beer yield the same effect - no, I'm not kidding.

Every college break, I would return home in hopes that the phase would have passed. Nope. They spent the time honing their skills. There was no longer a need to pin me down as they had perfected their guerrilla warfare tactics. The 'drop and roll', fart standing up next to the victim, then drop down to the floor to avoid the smell; 'snoozer sneak attack', fart loud enough to wake the person up, then run quickly from their room to avoid the smell; or my favorite, the 'all out ambush', where both of them would come and sit on either side of me on the couch to watch TV then just let loose (usually after some scallop potatoes or sausage). I still laugh, and cringe, every time I think about it.

Charlie has entered into the potty talk phase where he's become very aware of his bodily functions. Like his uncles, he loves not only to fart (or tootie, as he calls them), but to talk about farts every chance he gets. He wants me to listen to his farts, 'Hey Mommy, that tootie was so loud, Nani and Papa heard it all the way in Florida.' To smell them, 'Whoa, Mommy, what is that smell?' I don't know, Charlie, what is it? 'Oh, it was just my tootie and boy does it stink.' He even sings about them,
'Old McDonald had a toot.
Tootie, tootie, toot.
And on that toot there was poop.
Poopy, poopy, poop.
With a toot tooot here and poop poop there,
Here a toot, there a poop, everywhere a toot poop.
Old McDonald was a yucky,
Toot, toot, toot, toot, toot, TOOOOOOT!'

This is usually followed by roaring laughter (both mine and his), for a good 2 minutes. I know this only encourages the behavior. You would think after 30 plus years of being oppressed by farts, I would have had my fill and would want to teach Charlie that they're gross and to be avoided. But it's so ingrained in me and was such a huge part of my upbringing. I feel farts/tooties contain a valuable life lesson, if you just look for it, or smell it (hee hee).

Farts are funny. They represent humor at it's most basic, human level. They are the great equalizer. No matter how rich, powerful, or important you become, regardless of race, ethnicity or religion, everyone farts. Barack Obama, Queen Elizabeth (though she only passes gas), Osama Bin Laden, even Gwyneth Paltrow, are no better than you or me, they all fart. Everyone does. Except for Joaquin Phoenix and Matt Damon, they smell of nothing but ivory soap and Old Spice.

IGC

I've scheduled myself for some exploratory surgery. I called my OB, demanding she go searching for my IGC (intrauterine guilt chip). Somewhere during the whole labor and delivery process it was implanted in me, by who I'm not sure. Maybe the anesthesiologist? Regardless, the IGC is there. I can feel it trying to thwart my every impulse to do something that will improve my health, mental well being, or happiness. Like an electric fence, ready to administer a high voltage shock, it's there. How else can I explain my actions yesterday?

It was a tough day at the office for Mommy. Gregory's stomach bug from last week must have lodged itself so far up his rectum, that in my arms was the only place he could be comfortable. He did not stop whining or crying all day. And Charlie, my beloved eldest. You would think after saying 412 times, "Please be gentle with your brother. It's not okay to hit him, pull his hair, push him down, or make him eat carpet", he would get the idea to stop. No, instead he ran from room to room, banging on walls, yelling, "Stope it, stope it! I'm not saying the adult word, it's my word. Gregory is stope it." We're into creative cursing, he's not allowed to say 'stupid' so he says things like 'stope it', 'fonk' or 'shick'.

Thankfully, my husband left work early, slow day for him. He went to the gym and came home refreshed, showered, and ready for some family time. The boys were acting up or really just acting the same as they had all day. I wanted nothing more than to go for a run, alone. If I could have that, maybe my response to their every question wouldn't be a raised, strained voice on the verge of hysteria.

I said, I'm going to go for a run if you don't mind. Charlie threw himself at me and yelled, 'Mommy, don't go, don't go. Take me with you. Don't leave. I don't want to stay home with Daddy.' Gregory sat at my feet, crying hysterically. Brian said, "Um, do you mind waiting an hour or so, until one of them is in bed, or atleast they're both having dinner?"

I think the IGC rendered me speechless as I was only able to muster a 'you can't be serious' glare at my husband. 'What?', he said, 'You really can't wait to go?'
It is going to be pitch black in an hour, I'll be gone for 20, maybe 30 minutes tops.
'So, it's not like you haven't run in the dark before. Why can't you go to the gym later?'
If my husband had any sense, he would realize that in an hour, my motivation would be gone faster than my first glass of wine or my sanity.

I stood up and started walking away, fuming. Charlie scampered after me, whining for me not to go, to take him with me. The IGC informed him that I wasn't going anywhere, I was going to stay home where I belonged. He was gleeful. He grabbed me around the waist and tried to lift up my shirt in an attempt to find my belly button. Sticking his finger into my navel is one of his favorite signs of affection. I detest it. As I pulled away, he put his hands on my belly and said, "Why is it so big?" AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I went straight into my room and slammed the door.

When I emerged 2 minutes later (the IGC doesn't permit a longer break than that), Brian had a smirk on his face that I wanted to smack, like a mosquito on my arm. I ignored him. 'What, you're going to be mad at me?'
Yes, I am. You got to go to the gym at your convenience, all I'm asking for is 30 minutes.
'How often do I say 'no', Christine? Never. And I didn't say no, I just asked that you wait.'
Fair point, he never says no and really bends over backwards to help me when I need it. The IGC must have been set off, because I actually felt bad. I started to concede until he opened his mouth again, 'Why didn't you go this morning? I was around and asked if you needed anything.'

So says the man who got to spend a leisurely hour plus at the gym, probably got to do weights as well as cardio and take a steam.
All I'm asking for is a little equality. Why can't I take a run at the end of my day and when I want to? Why can't I leave and let you handle the kids for a bit? He spouted on and on about building his gym time into his schedule. 'I think we're going to have to agree to disagree on this one. You don't understand what I'm saying. You could have gone for a run this morning. And it's not fair to leave me with the kids when it's clear that Mommy is the only one they want.'

My rage must have stifled the IGC, I could feel it's hold on me weakening as I yelled, That is it! First, the kids are 3 and 1 and easily distracted. Play trucks, throw knives, tie them up with rope, pay any attention to them at all, or simply wait 5 minutes, and I promise you'll quickly become their favorite person. Second, I have been with them, in this state of ridiculousness, ALL DAY LONG and you're giving me grief about 30 minutes? I need a break before I go out of my mind.

And with that I set off into the near complete darkness. 25 minutes later I returned, feeling dare I say, happy. I could greet my children with a smile, I even gave my husband a kiss. Now was that so bad, you stope it, fonking, shick head?

I Can't Argue With That

I think Charlie is getting smarter, or more insane. His recent spree of outbursts has left me scratching my head, wondering what to do next. They could be described as irrational, or passionate depending on the day and my mood. What differentiates these from his usual maniacal rants? In the past, no matter how ridiculous the content, I could put things to rest using a little redirection and humor. For example:

'Mommy, I'm going to smoke Gregory.'
What?
'I'm going to smoke him. I'm serious with you, I'm going to smoke him."
What does smoke mean?
'Push him down and run him over with a vacuum.'
Would you want him to do that to you?
'No.'
Okay, well let's get some blocks and build a tower and watch Gregory knock it down.
'That's a great idea, Mommy. I would like to do that.'
Building is much better than smoking, don't you think?
'Yes, I do.'

Situation diffused, no casualties. But this new and improved Charlie is like nothing I've seen before. There is no arguing with him, or getting him off track, he's like a dog with a bone.

The first time he appeared was after a run to Target. All purchases and children were tucked safely in the car as we headed toward the exit. As soon as we hit the street, I hear,
'I'm in the wrong seat.' - Ignore the whiny voice, ignore the whiny voice.
'I'm in the wrong seat.' - Turn up the music, continue ignoring.
'Mommy, Gregory's in my seat! Get him out of my seat.'
Charlie, that is your seat.
'No, it's not.'
Yes, it is, you can't fit into Gregory's seat so that one is yours.
'NO, IT IS NOT.'
Charlie, isn't that the seat you always climb into, the one behind the passenger seat?'
'No, it's not. I sit behind you, Mommy.'
This went on for a good 3 minutes, me trying to reason with a 3 year old who is clearly experimenting with delusional reality, and him screeching, like I had set his hair on fire.

On occasion I will catch a glimpse of my mother in myself. But at this moment, I was channeling her directly from the east coast, circa 1977. I pulled the car over into the breakdown lane. I turned around, stared Charlie right in the eye and said,
Do you want to go out to lunch or not?
Sniffle, sniffle, 'Yes.'
Then stop it, Charlie, just stop it.
More sniffles, but he calms down enough to say, 'But this isn't my car seat.'
Are you kidding me? It's like arguing with OJ Simpson about whether he did it or not. He truly believed he was in the wrong seat, or at least pretended that's what he believed with such conviction, that I had to back down.
Okay, Charlie, it's not your seat. Do you want a hot dog or grilled cheese for lunch?
'I want to change seats with Gregory.'
I ignored him for the rest of the car ride home.


The next evening, smarter/crazier Charlie made another appearance at bedtime. He was tucked in for the night, teeth brushed, stories read, songs sung. Peering through the bars of his toddler bed, he often tries to engage us with questions, songs, stories, etc, in the hopes of postponing bedtime. He looks much like a prisoner, straining to see someone walking down the corridor, minus the mirror. If only I could keep him under lock and key.
'Mommy, I don't like my skin.'
What, Charlie?
'I don't like my skin, I don't want my skin on."
Good night, Charlie.
'But my skin, I don't like it. I don't want it. Take it off.'
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
'Mommy. Mommy. MOMMY. Please take my skin off.'
I walk to his room and shut the door. I hear him whining about his skin until he falls asleep. Thank goodness he was tired, I'm not sure how I would have handled that one in the daylight with full energy Charlie.

There is no resolution to these situations. My usual bag of tricks, the ones all the early childhood experts recommend - redirect, ignore, sense of humor - are failing me. As I dig deep into the vault from my youth, tactics that I swore I would never use on my kids are starting to sound quite appealing. I'm currently reconsidering my stance on wooden spoons, hot pepper flakes, and pressure points. I'm not sure when new Charlie will make his next appearance, I just hope I'll be ready for him.