Wait... I've been drinking again, right? Hmmm, hopefully any other parents out there don't have to clean coffee, Mountain Dew, or liquor off of their keyboards.
I *must* be doing something wrong, right? I mean every other parent/grandparent/person with an opinion on the planet, loves to tell me how easy it was to raise their child, niece, nephew, or my little pony. After all... I must be doing something wrong.
During the week we have a fairly nice, fairly regular schedule - right around 1 p.m. I get him ready, we grab his babies (or dogs, or CCG cards, or whatever else this weekly fancy is), and head to his bedroom. Then we begin "the ritual" (note: this used to be much longer, thankfully he's removed some things for us) -
- We touch all of the dinosaurs on the walls of the room. This is currently 8.
- We spell out the blocks that make up his name.
- We go through the quote that's up on the wall up above his bed.
- And if he's made it through this (and that's a big if!), he then rests in my arms and I sing to him.
- Hopefully by this point I can put him in his bed, tell him I love him, and maybe rub his back as he falls asleep.
But that's the 'normal' and as we are all aware, 2 year-olds are anything but normal.
Yesterday, we made it through the first couple of steps when we had a melt down... and not just a normal meltdown, the screaming "mama", "dada", "kitty" kind. So he ended up in the bed a few steps early, and that's always when the fun begins.
First, its the yelling - "Mammaaaaaaaaa" and he'll put his hand by his mouth as if he's amplifying his voice. This always starts softly and gets progressively louder.
Then comes the kicking. The bed... the wall... I often wonder if the neighbors are convinced I keep the cast of Stomp in my house.
Often times what follows is the launching of stuffed animals. I'm not sure if he's going for distance or accuracy, but they end up pretty much everywhere.
Now (obviously), comes the lamentations of the boy for the aforementioned stuffed animals. As an adult, my thought is "Duh, if you hadn't thrown them out, you wouldn't be sobbing over the 'missing' stuffed animals.
After these steps, out comes the boy. If the boy were a WWII vet he'd have already dug 'Tom', 'Dick', and 'Harry', but wisely we do not allow shovels at naptime. So instead, we have a free climber that can use any surface to reach his desired goal (in this case, the ground). Often times, he'll peer over the stair railing and with a "Hi Da" announce his arrival.
And then it begins anew, with increasing frustration on both sides - until you just wear him down.
Good thing there's only 16-however many years to go. I think I'm going to go hire myself a trainer.