Binkytowne

Triumph

Can I have a cookie?

No. Cookies are not bedtime snacks.

BUT I WANT A COOKIE. You used to let me have cookies!

Yes, and now you have a cavity. No cookies for bedtime snacks.

PLEEEEEEEEEEASE???????

No.

{ 5 minutes of negotiation including discussions about the health and wellness benefits of bananas over goldfish crackers and 2 additional minutes shooting down requests for JUST ONE hersheys kiss }

FINE! I'll eat a banana! If you give me some goldfish.

{ Weary mother trudges downstairs to procure goldfish and a banana. Only, what the hell? Who ate all the freaking bananas? WHO DIDN'T TELL ME THEY ATE THE LAST BANANA? I hate that.

In order to avoid another 7 minute drawn-out discussion of what will be acceptable to eat as a bedtime snack in absence of the banana it took 7 minutes to convince him to have, weary mother breaks off a tiny piece of a chocolate chip cookie, purposefully looking for a spot with no chocolate in it and trudges back upstairs }

Nobody told me we were out of bananas (said for the benefit of the not-tired boy's father, who was within earshot and definitely the one who ate the last banana AND DIDN'T TELL ME. (I hate that)) so I brought you this TINY piece of cookie.

Boy rejoices. 

Weary mother tries to hold on to some shred of credibility by announcing the cookie has no chocolate in it. At all! Boy settles in to be read to while consuming his bed time snack of goldfish crackers and fraction of chocolate chip cookie, minus the chocolate. Or so I think.

Mom, mom, mom...

What?

This cookie has a chocolate chip in it.

He holds it up so I can see the miniscule bit of chocoalte floating in the inch by inch piece of broken off cookie in his hand. He waves it in the air in a triumphant circular motion and smugly takes another bite.

You lose again, mom.

Weary mother agrees.  

 

Boy meets sidewalk

You just know there's not going to be a happy ending to this story:

 

Boy meets sidewalk

You just know there's not going to be a happy ending to this story:

 

You are not me

My best friend shakes her head and says I just have a hard time believing the stories you tell me are true.

                                             

I know she does. It's because she sees you away from home most of the time. Where you feel less sure of your surroundings and still hover near by, ready to take refuge and willing to listen when I caution.

You wouldn't have believed it anyway.. laughs the grandmother when I explain that I never expected this. I never imagined carrying you, kicking and screaming, to your car seat and pinning you down while I strapped you in. How you were wearing only a diaper and a pair of shorts and how comical and terrible it all seemed at once, trying not to cry but yet feeling a laugh stir in my soul. Your face, angry and red like a tomato at seven thirty in the morning, because a tee shirt was out of the question.

                                                      

                                                    Yes, you really are trying to start the grill.

You are not like me. Of course, you are in some ways, but your personality, your strong desire to assert your independence, your unwillingness to give an inch; I don't know what that's like. I want to teach you that it's alright if everyday is a little different than the one before. That it's nice to take it all in sometimes. You don't have to manage every single thing all of the time.

                                                      

                                        Do not be fooled by the boy who pretends to sleep

I'm just not sure I know how to do that. Because you are not me. It may have taken me twenty nine months to fully understand that, but I do. I officially proclaim that you know what you want better than I do now. I might know a way that is more direct, safe or colorful. I can do my best to influence you and the way that you think, but my days of thinking for you are done. You want ice cream trucks and fire engines to drive past our house. Now. You want to buckle your seat belt YOURSELF. You want to cross the street without holding hands. You want the blue shorts. You want the waffle to be cold and damn it, you want the grape juice NOT the fruit punch and you do not want it in a sippy cup.

                                              

This morning, exasperated and tired of fighting every.single.thing. I said to you, Can we please be friends? But as the words crossed my lips I remembered that I am not here to be your friend. I am here to help you learn that feelings are strong and that some things are just not possible when you want them and if you throw that monster truck at me you will have a time out because that's not a good way to handle disappointment. I'm not saying I'm not tempted to chuck one myself, and maybe I have when you weren't looking, but only when you couldn't see me. Because I get mad too. Mad when I lose my temper. Upset when I react in the moment and forget that I need to help you learn what you should do instead of always pointing out what you shouldn't. 

                                                         

I like things the easy way. It pains me that we have entire days (weekends, weeks) where it seems we don't get along, but I try to remind myself that today is different than yesterday and tomorrow won't be the same as today. That it's OK to take it all in sometimes and not manage every little thing. To dawdle at bed time and to choose to pick the chocolate chips out of the cookies before you eat them. (Even though that just doesn't make any sense, I personally think it's better if you eat them together, it's up to you.) It's not easy, this stage we are in, because I am not you. But I need to let you be two.

You are not me

My best friend shakes her head and says I just have a hard time believing the stories you tell me are true.

                                             

I know she does. It's because she sees you away from home most of the time. Where you feel less sure of your surroundings and still hover near by, ready to take refuge and willing to listen when I caution.

You wouldn't have believed it anyway.. laughs the grandmother when I explain that I never expected this. I never imagined carrying you, kicking and screaming, to your car seat and pinning you down while I strapped you in. How you were wearing only a diaper and a pair of shorts and how comical and terrible it all seemed at once, trying not to cry but yet feeling a laugh stir in my soul. Your face, angry and red like a tomato at seven thirty in the morning, because a tee shirt was out of the question.

                                                      

                                                    Yes, you really are trying to start the grill.

You are not like me. Of course, you are in some ways, but your personality, your strong desire to assert your independence, your unwillingness to give an inch; I don't know what that's like. I want to teach you that it's alright if everyday is a little different than the one before. That it's nice to take it all in sometimes. You don't have to manage every single thing all of the time.

                                                      

                                        Do not be fooled by the boy who pretends to sleep

I'm just not sure I know how to do that. Because you are not me. It may have taken me twenty nine months to fully understand that, but I do. I officially proclaim that you know what you want better than I do now. I might know a way that is more direct, safe or colorful. I can do my best to influence you and the way that you think, but my days of thinking for you are done. You want ice cream trucks and fire engines to drive past our house. Now. You want to buckle your seat belt YOURSELF. You want to cross the street without holding hands. You want the blue shorts. You want the waffle to be cold and damn it, you want the grape juice NOT the fruit punch and you do not want it in a sippy cup.

                                              

This morning, exasperated and tired of fighting every.single.thing. I said to you, Can we please be friends? But as the words crossed my lips I remembered that I am not here to be your friend. I am here to help you learn that feelings are strong and that some things are just not possible when you want them and if you throw that monster truck at me you will have a time out because that's not a good way to handle disappointment. I'm not saying I'm not tempted to chuck one myself, and maybe I have when you weren't looking, but only when you couldn't see me. Because I get mad too. Mad when I lose my temper. Upset when I react in the moment and forget that I need to help you learn what you should do instead of always pointing out what you shouldn't. 

                                                         

I like things the easy way. It pains me that we have entire days (weekends, weeks) where it seems we don't get along, but I try to remind myself that today is different than yesterday and tomorrow won't be the same as today. That it's OK to take it all in sometimes and not manage every little thing. To dawdle at bed time and to choose to pick the chocolate chips out of the cookies before you eat them. (Even though that just doesn't make any sense, I personally think it's better if you eat them together, it's up to you.) It's not easy, this stage we are in, because I am not you. But I need to let you be two.

It's my party..

Before:

Demonstrate your brilliance by showing the birthday boy his cupcake

then proceed to tell him he can't touch it because it's on fire.

                                                                  

After: Realize your mistake blow those damn candles out and give him the all clear.

It's my party..

Before:

Demonstrate your brilliance by showing the birthday boy his cupcake

then proceed to tell him he can't touch it because it's on fire.

                                                                  

After: Realize your mistake blow those damn candles out and give him the all clear.

How to

Make your pictures look holiday-ish when none of your child's winter garments match in color:

 

 

                              

                                 

Hide the fact that there is donut frosting on your childs face when taking pictures:

                                                          

Piss off your dog:

                   

How to

Make your pictures look holiday-ish when none of your child's winter garments match in color:

 

 

                              

                                 

Hide the fact that there is donut frosting on your childs face when taking pictures:

                                                          

Piss off your dog:

                   

The long and short of it

Ashton Kutcher is not my favorite flavor, but I will acknowledge he is easy on the eyes. Remember how one day he was looking good? His hair long and wavy, framing his face as he was swashbuckling a woman old enough to be his mother? He was Ashton. Young and hot and sassy.

Then remember when he showed up one day, having cut all his hair off for some movie and he looked like a 40 year old who should be wearing a suit and like his name wasn't Ashton, but something like Mike, carrying a briefcase to his office job?

We went for haircut #2 this weekend. It was traumatic. Hair flying everywhere, a screaming toddler desperately trying to escape my arms, which were pinning down his. An Italian barber who couldn't say more than "OK OK", which to me signaled we were done, but to him simply translated: Stop that child from wiggling of I'm going to cut his ear off.  Twenty minutes of this, the barber squirting my son in the head with his water bottle and my son a complete mess with snot and hair all over his face I said ENOUGH!

Looking down at all that beautiful golden (it's really golden, I'm not exaggerating) hair covering my black pants made me more than a little sick. I kept looking at him in my rear view mirror driving home and cringing. Oh how I loved to sweep his locks to the side with my fingers, brushing them away from his face, admiring the curve of his forehead, the way the fine hair, the silky undergrowth along the hairline was platinum blond, kissed by the sun.    

Now he looks like he's 40, OK, he doesn't look 40 but he does look like he's 4. I'm not down with that look. I know, it's hair, it grows back, yadda yadda. No more italian barbers! No more male barbers in grown up barbershops! I'm going to find a mommy somewhere who cuts hair at a kids salon who will know what it means when I say not too short. Who will understand that translates to: Please don't take my little boy away from me. Please don't let him get discovered modeling underwear and marry a hot movie star as old as me and pull pranks on people on TV for kicks.

At least, not until he's 40.