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.