There's "No" Time. Like, the present.
"Hey Daddy?" starts the relatively late Sunday morning.
(This after going to bed at 1:35am new clock-push time, causing a minor ruckus by throwing Asha off my head at 4:05am to the foot of the bed, whence I didn't know Dover had hopped up to snooze some time in there --> "YI!")
But the boy got a good night's rest, and is all charm and cheeks in his crib. "I have to go let the dogs out, then I'll be back, okay?" *whisper* "Okay."
I come back and open the curtains; wide eyes and mock open mouth surprise: "It's light time!" "Daytime, yes." He spells Ryan. He lets me change his clothes. He waves to his mommy in the hallway. Just a great time of day.
Goes downhill from there.
Went in to work to finish up my paper, to learn that Ryan babbled through his nap again. Rarin' to go for a brisk walk in his wagon, then down to the park by the American Legion, chasing Grandad's shadow. Back home for Papa Petrino's Scramble Bread in front of the fire, then it's off to read books! Ding! So starts the fighting.
Granted, it's not All That Bad just yet, but he starts to dart into corners or up on the sofa to get away from me when he should be making a left turn onto the shoes-off step. Unvelcroed his sneakers while he squirmed on the chair, kicking at my legs. Pick him up after 8pm recently, and he starts turning into Wet Noodle Back Arch Boy. The final straw was telling me "no" on the sink, a Dracula arm draped across his mouth, the hell he was going to brush his teeth tonight.
I realize I shouldn't yell. He's just being two. I should reserve my yells for when he's about to stick his tongue in the crockpot or goose a nun with his head. But it still comes out from time to time, when I'm sick of the "no"s. So I put him in his crib, fully clothed, and let him think about the importance of oral hygiene for a while.
Still, I have proof that I love him more than my own well-being. I was squatting next to the dining room window the other day, talking to the dogs (SHUT UP, DAMMIT!), when Ryan wanted to see, so I picked him up under his armpits, then immediately proceeded to lose my balance. Stuck between a chair and a hard wall, and not wanting to just fling him down as you would, say, someone else's kid, I took one for the team. Or at least my tibia did, rocking back onto my spine, holding the boy aloft like a fine Ming Dynasty vase in one of those Jackie Chan movies.
He's that precious.
Especially when he sings the "Air Force Song" with me. He only knows the last few words to every other line, but he sings them with gusto. "Ehya Fohhhhhhsss." I swear he's from Boston sometimes.
(This after going to bed at 1:35am new clock-push time, causing a minor ruckus by throwing Asha off my head at 4:05am to the foot of the bed, whence I didn't know Dover had hopped up to snooze some time in there --> "YI!")
But the boy got a good night's rest, and is all charm and cheeks in his crib. "I have to go let the dogs out, then I'll be back, okay?" *whisper* "Okay."
I come back and open the curtains; wide eyes and mock open mouth surprise: "It's light time!" "Daytime, yes." He spells Ryan. He lets me change his clothes. He waves to his mommy in the hallway. Just a great time of day.
Goes downhill from there.
Went in to work to finish up my paper, to learn that Ryan babbled through his nap again. Rarin' to go for a brisk walk in his wagon, then down to the park by the American Legion, chasing Grandad's shadow. Back home for Papa Petrino's Scramble Bread in front of the fire, then it's off to read books! Ding! So starts the fighting.
Granted, it's not All That Bad just yet, but he starts to dart into corners or up on the sofa to get away from me when he should be making a left turn onto the shoes-off step. Unvelcroed his sneakers while he squirmed on the chair, kicking at my legs. Pick him up after 8pm recently, and he starts turning into Wet Noodle Back Arch Boy. The final straw was telling me "no" on the sink, a Dracula arm draped across his mouth, the hell he was going to brush his teeth tonight.
I realize I shouldn't yell. He's just being two. I should reserve my yells for when he's about to stick his tongue in the crockpot or goose a nun with his head. But it still comes out from time to time, when I'm sick of the "no"s. So I put him in his crib, fully clothed, and let him think about the importance of oral hygiene for a while.
Still, I have proof that I love him more than my own well-being. I was squatting next to the dining room window the other day, talking to the dogs (SHUT UP, DAMMIT!), when Ryan wanted to see, so I picked him up under his armpits, then immediately proceeded to lose my balance. Stuck between a chair and a hard wall, and not wanting to just fling him down as you would, say, someone else's kid, I took one for the team. Or at least my tibia did, rocking back onto my spine, holding the boy aloft like a fine Ming Dynasty vase in one of those Jackie Chan movies.
He's that precious.
Especially when he sings the "Air Force Song" with me. He only knows the last few words to every other line, but he sings them with gusto. "Ehya Fohhhhhhsss." I swear he's from Boston sometimes.
posted by Dan at 9:44 PM
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