Tiny Tyrants

There’s a hilarious anecdote in Amy Wilson’s memoir –- “momoir,” if you prefer -- When Did I Get Like This?: The Screamer, the Worrier, the Dinosaur-Chicken-Nugget-Buyer, and Other Mothers I Swore I'd Never Be She’s describing how she figured out the one thing that calmed her colicky infant was bouncing on an exercise ball. So she did – 24/7. When her husband got home from work they’d trade off, not even stopping to eat: “I would shovel forkfuls of kung pao chicken into David’s mouth while he kept bouncing.”

Then there were 2 comments I read online on the same theme: one new mom said her 1yo doesn’t “allow” her to sit on the sofa. “She lets me know in no uncertain terms that she wants her mommy on the floor with her!” Another mom said her 2yo made her get up and sit on the other side of the room – and she did! (As would any mom not willing to risk a tantrum from an irrational toddler.)

Do you realize what this means, people? It means we are allowing ourselves to be ruled by the sticky iron fists of miniature dictators!! They’re despots in diapers! Bullies in bibs! Oppressors in overalls! (I could go all day; I have a thesaurus and I’m not afraid to use it.)

The sick part is, we willingly go along with this treatment to keep them happy. It’s like those mean girls in junior high you were desperate to have like you because they were popular. They’d be super-nice to your face but you were always afraid they’d go postal on you in the middle of the night at some slumber party.

Pissing off the people who determine whether you sleep through the night is NOT WORTH IT. Most parents will do anything to fend off that dinnertime tantrum, the meltdown in the candy aisle, the piercing air-raid siren that is their newborn’s wail. Even if it means risking indigestion, bad knees, or one’s own choice of seating.

Sometimes I’m ashamed that I, an intelligent, reasonably confident adult, allow myself to be bossed around by the shortest people in the house. Shouldn’t the person calling the shots at least be able to SAY “shots” without lisping?

However, what my children lack in articulation and height, they make up for in volume and stubbornness. I’m just not willing to launch World War III by taking a stand against the small stuff. So that means more often than not, when my kids say jump, I say, “Like a kangaroo or a bunny?”

Flashback Friday: I Hate the Playground

It's that time of year again. It's staying light outside longer, the weather's getting warmer, the playground is calling... Too bad I hate it. Here's why.

I Hate the Playground
(originally posted 5/08)

When we bought our house just before we got married, the postage stamp-sized yard was actually a plus. It was just big enough that we could enjoy a bit of the outdoors without being bogged down with yard work every weekend. ( I got my fill of that growing up -- thanks, Dad!) However, I have given birth to an outdoorsy type. Therein lies the problem.

Now that it’s nice out and gets dark later, Miles wants to be outside 24/7. The minute he wakes up he’s clamoring to go out: “Wanna go to da park, mama. Go to da playground.” I have decided that I hate the playground. Let me count the reasons:

1. It’s dirty. “Well, duh,” you might be saying. Listen, I’m not some neat-freak who irons her toddler’s play clothes and can’t stand for him to get dirty. But Miles takes it to a new level. He BATHES himself in the dirt, digging it under his fingernails and caking it on his cheeks. He gets wood chips in his hair and every crevice of his clothing. And don’t get me started on the sandbox, which I have on good authority serves as a gigantic litter box for every cat in the neighborhood. Grossed out yet?

2. It’s confusing. We live near a large community playground where there are tons of communal toys left there for anyone to play with. Which is great, except that then Miles doesn’t understand why he can’t hop on every tricycle or toy car he comes across in somebody’s yard.

3. It’s embarrassing. Every time we go to the playground, there’s always at least one super-enthusiastic parent. You know, the one who’s whizzing down the slide with her kid, whooping it up, yelling, “Wow, honey! Great job! Isn’t this FUN?!!” As opposed to me, who’s sitting on a bench looking at her watch.

Miles will home in on this über-parent and follow them around incessantly, even inserting himself between the parent and their child, desperate to get in on the fun, as if he’s some poor, attention-starved orphan. One time he was actually shouting, “Look at me! Look at me!” to this poor dad who was trying to have some quality time with his daughter. Miles, chill! Desperation is not an attractive quality. Honestly, you’d think we ignored him all day.

4. It’s stressful. Another problem with the playground is that you have to constantly break up kid scuffles. “No, sweetie, that’s his truck. You can play with that one.” (Cut to me prying the truck out of Miles’ ridiculously strong grip.)

And if the other kid’s parent isn’t watching? Then you’re left in the awkward position of trying to discipline a stranger. “Um, you there -- please don’t spit on the slide. We’d like to take a turn now, if that’s OK.” You never know how a situation like that’s going to play out. Will the kid flip out on you? Will his mom?

5. It’s so hard to say good-bye. Miles has never done well with transitions. That “we’re leaving in 5 minutes” spiel has zero effect. It always ends with me dragging him away kicking and screaming. Except for that one time he allowed himself to be bribed with a cereal bar.

So, there you have it -- 5 reasons why I try to keep my son confined to our tiny yard. Leave it to me to take the fun out of a wholesome childhood pastime, right? Next week: Why I Hate the Circus and Disney World, Too.

Too Much Togetherness

I have a request: can everyone just please stop touching me? Stop poking me when I’m sleeping, stop head-butting me in the back of the knees when I’m making your toast, stop climbing up my leg when I’m trying to drink my coffee.

Look, I’m all for affection and togetherness. I love hugs, kisses, and snuggles. Lord knows I smooch my kids a million times a day. But enough’s enough! Sometimes I just want to sit on the couch and read a magazine without someone dive-bombing me, pinching me, or sitting pressed up so close to me that when he sneezes, we both need a tissue.

And honestly? Sometimes I don’t know if it’s storytime or a rugby scrum. Can’t we sit NEXT to each other and read a book? Does everyone really need to be on top of each other like a litter of newborn puppies? Because you guys are wiggly. And elbowy. We rarely get through an entire story without someone getting kneed in the face or another tender area.

There are some days when I feel like I’ve been probed by aliens from head to toe. From someone inspecting my nostrils when he’s squirming next to me in bed in footie PJs, to someone poking every freckle and spot while I’m getting dressed, to someone pulling on my arm to come turn on the TV, find the Spongebob toothpaste, or poke the straw into a juicebox. Today Riley was grabbing my toes to inspect my new pedicure. (It DOES look nice, but does he have to touch it?)

BTW, funny how both boys will jump on my back for a piggyback ride and fight over who gets to sit in my lap, but when it comes time to hold hands to cross the street, no one wants to come near me.

And if anyone’s tempted to leave me a comment about how someday I’ll be desperate to get eye contact from my kids, let alone a hug? Don’t. NOT THE TIME.

Right now I just want to be left alone. Keep your hands to yourself and walk away from Mommy. I love you just as much at arm’s length. Maybe more.

Stuff My Kids Say

He’s an Internet legend: the guy who started a Twitter page called “@#$& My Dad Says” to chronicle his curmudgeonly father’s salty sayings and promptly got a book deal and a sitcom starring William Shatner. Well, I think my kids could give him a run for his money. IMO, they’re funnier, more family-friendly, and way cuter, to boot.

One of the perks of having kids that I didn’t anticipate is how they provide constant entertainment. I thought it would be all peek-a-boo and knock-knock jokes, but no. My boys - who are barely as old as my newest pair of jeans - are laugh-out-loud funny on a daily basis. Good thing I have my Twitter page to keep track of their antics. Here’s a small sampling from the last 2 weeks:

Mar. 15: 4yo picks out random assortment of clothing. Me: "You're going to wear ALL that?" M: "You'll see how it all works out, Mom.” [How it worked out was lots and lots of layers. It was an eye-popping mishmash of Batman and Super Mario and Crocs, oh my!]

Mar. 14: Was getting Playdoh out of the jam-packed closet & the iron fell out. M: "That really hurts on Tom & Jerry."

Mar. 11: 2yo requested Glee Xmas album in the car. And by requested, I mean he yelled until I put it on.

Mar. 10: 4yo won't eat the bread on his sandwich because it's "undelicious."

Mar. 3: M. was trying to hitchhike on our street. He says he saw it on the Pink Panther. Had to explain it's a no-no in the non-cartoon world.

Mar. 3: I swear, my 2yo gets stuck in the kitchen chair about 4x a day - a leg, an arm, his HEAD. [Note: He’s totally doing it on purpose. I’ve tried ignoring him and letting him untangle himself, but then his big brother gets involved and things take a turn for the worse.]

It’s no surprise to anyone that kids say and do quirky things, of course, but somehow it’s even funnier when they’re your own. We were all lying in bed the other morning trying to get an extra few minutes sleep while my 2yo wandered around our room slamming closet doors and rummaging through drawers.

Riley picked up C.’s cellphone and announced, “Daddy want phone EVERY DAY.” We all busted out laughing. The kid’s barely 2 and he’s already picked up on his dad’s smartphone addiction! Now if he could only figure out how to get himself unstuck from the kitchen chairs...

Post-Toddler Stress Disorder

Don’t you just love toddlers? Those adorable first words. That hilarious drunken-sailor gait. Their newfound independence. The endless tantrums...

I was telling somebody about how my second-born is so much more difficult than my first-born when it occurred to me that I am absolutely wrong. I blame Post-Toddler Stress Disorder for blocking it out, but Miles was just as much of a hellion as Riley is at age 2, if not more. The proof is in my archives.

First, there was the infamous “Carseat Kerfuffle,” also known as “The Subaru Showdown,” when my son and I were locked in combat in the backseat of our car and I had to call his dad to come intervene before I left him by the side of the road. Ah, memories...

And you know when toddlers contradict themselves and tell you what they want and then have a tantrum when you give it to them? Good times. Hope you enjoy this little gem from my archives:

Yes I Do, No I Don’t

Miles: “Peanut butter! Peanut butter!”
Me: “You want a peanut butter sandwich?”
Miles: “OK.”
Me (after making sandwich): “Here you go, sweetie.”
Miles: “No peanut butter! Yogurt! YO-GURRRT!!”

Good thing there was an article in this month’s Parenting magazine about why toddlers contradict themselves, or I would’ve thought Miles was just being a huge pain in the butt. Well, he is, but at least it’s developmental.

These days, EVERYTHING is a battle with him. He’ll say he wants to go for a walk in the stroller. Then he has a fit when I try to strap him in. Then when I let him out, he goes sprinting for the street. When I say, “You can either get in the stroller or hold my hand” he sits down on the sidewalk and cries. Can you see why we haven’t been leaving the house much?

Even at home, though, the struggles continue. Some days he won’t sit in his highchair or let me put his socks on, or he insists on having two spoons at mealtime. Some things, I let go. Fine. Go nuts with the plastic cutlery! But in other cases it’s not so easy.

Take his dairy addiction, for example. Miles loves nothing more than cheese, yogurt, and above all, milk. He starts asking for milk the moment he wakes up. If I dare, say, go to the bathroom before heading downstairs to get his milk, he pitches a fit. If I forget his milk at meals, he wails, “Milk! Miiiilk!” like someone who’s being torn from their lover’s arms.

And too much milk is not a good thing. First, it fills him up so he doesn’t eat any actual food. Second, it causes him, um, “gastrointestinal distress,” which leads to nasty diapers for Mom and nasty diaper rash for him. I have explained all this to him calmly and rationally. And yet he persists in demanding dairy products around the clock.

I once let him whine and cry for 30 straight minutes before I gave in. I’m not made of stone, people!! (His dad, on the other hand, has no problems tuning out his son. And what do you know, Miles stops whining around him. Why doesn’t that approach work for moms?!)

Miles isn’t the only walking contradiction around here lately, though. I also go back and forth daily, even hourly. On the one hand, I’m having a harder time than ever with my beloved offspring. (Not helped by the fact that C. is gone most of the week now. 7 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. is too damn long a day for one parent!) On the other hand, when he’s not having milk meltdowns, Miles is cuter and more fun than ever.

I try to remind myself of the cute stuff he does, such as: calling oatmeal “eat-meal”; saying “I love Mama, I love Dada, I love baths”; hugging the dog; pretending his pasta is a rocket ship; and laughing hysterically when someone jumps out from behind a door and startles him.

Yes, he’s a funny kid. No, he’s not easy. Yes, I love him dearly. No, I do not miss him when his dad takes him out on weekends. I just hope they’re not going to Dairy Queen.

LAUGH O’ THE WEEK: My SIL sent me a funny e-mail about a 15-step program to see if you’re ready to have kids. An excerpt: “Dressing small children is not as easy as it seems. 1) Buy an octopus and a small bag made out of loose mesh. 2) Attempt to put the octopus into the bag so that none of the arms hang out. Repeat all morning.”

Scary Stuff

One day last week I took Riley to the grocery store. I try to avoid ever going with my kids -- even shopping at 9pm is preferably to dealing with candy-aisle double meltdowns. But Miles was at school and we were out of milk and bananas.

Things actually went quite well… until we passed the seafood counter. See, they have a lobster tank. A dozen or more unlucky crustaceans with thick rubber bands around their claws scuttle around until someone decides they’re dinner. Riley has seen the lobsters before. In fact, I thought they might be a fun attraction on the way to the frozen peas.

Wrong. As soon as our cart approached the tank, Riley began to freak out. And by freak out, I mean he reacted like someone having boiling oil poured down their pants. “NOOO!!! NO LOBSTAH, MAMA!!! NOOOOOO!!” he screamed while trying to scramble out of the shopping cart.

Is it wrong that my first reaction was to laugh? I’m sorry, but his response was so out-of-the-blue and over-the-top that it was comical. But I stifled my laughter and attempted to soothe my traumatized toddler. He continued talking about the lobsters for days, adding “no like” and “scawy.” Scary, indeed.

The ironic thing is, this kid has absolutely no fear of things he SHOULD be afraid of. For example: a few days after the lobster incident I took both kids to the gym with me. On the way back to the car, I was carrying Riley in one arm while I held Miles’ hand with the other arm, which also had 2 bags slung over it. I should mention that my arms were already sore from working out and that my toddler weighs approximately as much as a minivan.

I had to put Riley down for a second to open the door for Miles. In that split second, he sprinted away from the car -- into the depths of the parking garage without a single glance at his surroundings. Maybe 2 ½ seconds elapsed before I chased him down and grabbed his collar. And blessedly, no cars were driving past at the time. But the really scary part was that he showed absolutely no fear or remorse. Not at the stricken look on my face, not when I firmly shoved him into his car seat, not when I stuck my finger in his face and shouted, “No! You don’t EVER run away from Mommy!” In fact, he laughed.

For some reason -– perhaps because I was exhausted after 3 days of solo parenting while my husband was away on a business trip -– this episode triggered a mini breakdown. After I put the kids down for their naps/quiet time I started to freak out about what could have happened. What if there was a giant SUV hurtling around the corner, as there often is? What if the driver didn’t see Riley? What if I hadn’t been able to grab him in time?

Scary.

HEAD INJURY O’ THE WEEK DAY: Yesterday Riley got a bad gash on his forehead when a decorative birdfeeder fell on his head. I’m not even kidding. It will be a freaking MIRACLE if we both survive his childhood.

Parenting Advice that Actually Works

I’ve had the idea for this post for a long time. But I only have 2 tips, and as I know from my background in magazines, you need at least 3 examples to make a trend.

Also, people are more likely to read an odd-numbered list. It’s true! Statistics show that most people will read “5 Ways to Drop the Weight” over “10 Tips for Slimming Down by Summer.” Don’t say I never taught you anything. :)

Speaking of magazines, are there certain ones that feel like homework to you? I hate to admit it, since some of my friends write for them, but there are certain parenting magazines that, even though I subscribe, I don’t enjoy actually READING because they’re full of expert advice about what I should be doing, could be doing, and definitely should NOT be doing with my kids. By the time I close the magazine I feel exhausted, guilty, and a failure as a mom and a human being. (Read “7 Ways to Celebrate Earth Day” and tell me you don’t feel the same!!)

But darned if those magazines aren’t right sometimes. I used to openly sneer at the articles about making your kids smiley-face sandwiches and cutesy snacks in the shape of animals. Those are for annoyingly perfect stay-at-home moms with too much time on their hands! I’d think sneer. I can’t be bothered to cut toast into hearts and stars. I’ve got laundry to do! Essays to critique! Paint to watch dry!

Then I had my second child, a kid so averse to vegetables that he would hunt down and pick out a stray carrot shred that I’d tried to sneak into his applesauce. While his big brother would gobble down an entire bowl of steamed broccoli, this baby would squeal like a stuck pig when you tried to fork anything green towards his face.

Then one night Miles was playing with his food. He said, “I’m a dinosaur and I’m going to eat these tiny trees!” Then he’d chomp a piece of broccoli. Riley saw this and immediately began yelling, “Tees too! Tees toos!” So we gave him some broccoli “trees” and to my astonishment, HE ATE THEM. It wasn’t a fluke, either. He’s eaten broccoli several times since. So there you have it, parenting tip #1: Let kids play with their food. Or, Presentation counts.

Tip #2 is far easier: To get kids to listen, talk about them to someone else. Here’s an example: In the mornings, I often ask my 4yo to go upstairs after breakfast and get himself dressed. “Miles, go on up and grab some clothes.” “Miles, it’s time to get dressed now.” “Miles! I asked you to please go get dressed for school!” “MILES!! If you don’t go GET DRESSED RIGHT NOW we will be LATE and you will NOT get to play with your friends at school EVER AGAIN!!”

As an experiment, I decided to see if these parenting mags knew what they were talking about. So I said to my other son, “Riley, I guess Miles doesn’t want to go to school today. I asked him to get dressed 3 times now and he’s not, so I guess he won’t get to play with his friends. And too bad he’ll miss snack time.” Guess what happened? Miles sprang into action. He immediately sprinted upstairs, threw on his clothes and was waiting at the door with his backpack within minutes. Well, how about that?

So there you have it, 2 tried-and-true, expert-approved parenting tips that actually work. Just don’t try to convince me that I should be composting with my toddler, OK?

Good Thing He's Cute

“Uh-oh, Mama! UH-OH! Dwop-dit! Yook, Mama, YOOK!!”

Clearly, Riley is trying to tell me something. The urgency in his tiny voice tells me I better come quick and “yook” to see what’s wrong.

Oh. He dropped a blueberry on the floor. Cancel the ambulance.

I think he’s just showing off his new language skills every opportunity he gets. In the past month or so as he approaches age 2, he has unleashed a torrent of new vocabulary.* “Uh-oh”—his first word—is still in heavy rotation, which makes sense in our house, as is “Miles did it” and “No yike it.” The latter phrase is employed whenever he’s been persuaded to try a new food, and is usually accompanied by a disgusted pursing of his cherubic lips. Then, he spits out the item he doesn’t “yike” into my hand. Charming.

Still, he’s at an unbearably cute age. He sings “mewwily, mewwily” when he’s rowing his laundry basket boat down the stream hallway, and his “bitsy pie-duh” is often crawling up the water spout. (Funny, since he hates spiders.) He says “I. Wuv. Yew!” complete with hand gestures, and he’s big into hugging and kissing. Also, hitting and hair-pulling, but that’s a little less cute.

My mother always said about kids in general and hers in particular, “It’s a good thing they’re cute.” So true, so true. Just when you’re ready to take them on a one-way trip to Grandma’s for, oh, I don’t know, DRAWING ON THE COUCH WITH NONWASHABLE BLACK MARKER, they blink at you with those big brown eyes and you melt. Or at least become momentarily less homicidal.

Riley’s latest trick is boycotting his nap. Before Christmas, he was taking 3-hour naps. Not only did he not put up a fight, but he would go running for the stairs when I said, “Time to go up for your nap.” I thought like me, my baby loves his sleep.

Well. Then he figured out how to climb out of his crib. (Right on schedule, according to this blog entry about my firstborn at the same age. What would I do without my archives?!)

Unlike his big brother, however, Riley did not climb out once or twice and then resume his regular naps once the novelty wore off. Oh, no. For 2 days straight now he’s thrown a FIT about staying not only in his crib but his room during naptime. I let him cry and kick the door for an hour yesterday. (OK, probably 20 min. But it FELT like an hour.)

Here’s some “surveillance footage” of the escape artist in action.

So now we’re researching toddler beds and crib tents and plotting our next move. Just when we thought things had gotten back to normal after the holidays...

*I am aware that the topic of milestones, particularly those reached early, can induce anxiety and envy among fellow parents, so let me assure you that neither of my kids slept through the night till they were almost 1, and potty training my eldest was an extended form of torture. Feel better?

LINK O' THE WEEK: Last chance to sign up for the next session of my fun, practical, 6-week online writing class, "Personal Essays that Get Published." It pays off -- just ask my former students who've been published in the New York Times, Southern Living, Chicken Soup for the Soul, regional parenting mags, websites, and more.

Mama Don’t Know Jack

Things are a little busy here this week (deadlines, playdates, and preschool obligations) so I’m re-running a post that I wrote when my first son was a toddler. Since my second is now approaching the Terrible 2’s, it seemed appropriate...

I know toddlerhood is all about kids asserting their independence and testing limits and all that, but my WORD, what a pain in the butt it can be! Some days Miles has to argue with me about EVERYTHING. Now it’s even infiltrated our previously pleasant reading time.

Here’s an example. I was reading him a counting book. It starts with “One ostrich playing the organ” and goes up to “10 tiny turtles playing trumpets.” Except my son adamantly began arguing with me from page one: “No. No, Mommy, dat’s NOT a organ. Dat’s a pee-no.”

“You’re right, it does look sort of like a piano, but it’s actually called an organ.”

“No, dat’s not a organ.”

Whatever. Moving on... Except he kept this up throughout the WHOLE BOOK!! Those 6 bees were not playing bongos, they were playing drums, he insisted. The 7 eagles were most certainly NOT playing electric bass, they were playing guitars. Duh, Mommy! And don’t even get me started on the newts -- excuse me, “lizards” -- playing flutes!! Finally I just threw down the book in frustration.

But that tricky little toddler of mine, sometimes he purposely baits me. “What’s dat, Mommy?” he’ll ask innocently, pointing at a guy on a ride-on lawn mower across the street.

“That’s a lawn mower,” I tell him.

“No! Not a lawn mower, dat’s a TRACTOR,” he crows, pleased with himself for outsmarting his dim-bulb mom.

My friend S. grew so irritated with her older son’s superiority complex that one day she blurted: “I am 34 years old! I have a college degree. You are 7. Do you really think you’re smarter than me??” His prompt reply: “Yes.”

But back to the toddlers. Have I mentioned the temper on this kid?? God forbid I walk up the stairs ahead of him when HE wanted to go first. Or if I dare take too long refilling his sippy cup.

The funniest thing I’ve read all week is from “Naptime is the New Happy Hour,” by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. She’s describing her toddler daughter’s temper tantrum one morning:

"...because I committed the cardinal sin of starting the coffeemaker without giving her ample opportunity to push the button. Actually, as per our tradition, I’d asked her if she would like to push the button, but it seemed she and Elmo were having a private moment and I was intruding with my rude question …

But a minute later, when her bionic hearing picked up the sound of coffee brewing, she went completely mental. ‘You pushed the button! I wanted to push it! MAMA! PLEASE! I need to push the button!’ she screamed as if I wasn’t in the same room with her or even the same country."

Oh, I’ve been there, sister. You better believe I will never again choose what floor I want on an elevator as long as my toddler is around.

Blogs: Cheaper Than Therapy

One of the great ironies in my life is that although I am a longtime and enthusiastic blogger, I rarely have time to read other people’s blogs. Oh, I have a handful I check regularly, and even more that I’ve bookmarked or subscribed to and read occasionally, but it’s oh-so-rare for me to find time to sit down, surf, follow links, comment, and peruse the blogosphere to my heart’s content.

Lately, though, I’ve been trying to do this more. And let me tell you, there’s a lot of good stuff out there, people! This post, in particular, seemed to be written for me:

Blogger Rocks In My Dryer recalls the days when she had 3 boys under age 4:

“I’m not sure I was fully aware, back then, how incredibly taxing those days were. I operated much of the time in survival mode, buzzing between a pediatrician visit to a botched bedtime to a temper tantrum to an explosive diaper (or three). And I loved it – make no mistake. For all the exhaustion, there were many times that were so precious they did (and still do) take my breath away. But the intensity of the demands had me bouncing back and forth constantly between joy and discouragement, wonder and fear. I remember feeling guilty, sometimes, knowing there would never be a sweeter season in my life, so why was it that I sometimes just wanted everyone to go to sleep already?”

She continues: “I’m still very much in the trenches of motherhood, though I’ve mercifully passed into the days in which everyone is responsible for his or her own bodily fluids. Standing on this side of the preschool years, let me tell you, if you’re sitting there reading this with spit-up on your shirt, that you’re not crazy – what you’re doing is very hard. And it really does get easier.”

Thank God. Thank God this woman put into words what I’ve been feeling, without resorting to “Just wait till they’re teenagers” or “Enjoy this time because it goes so fast” or “Why don’t you go back to work if you don’t like being at home?” Because IT’S NOT THAT SIMPLE.

Every day, I am amazed at what a wonderful and intelligent human being I created in my own body. I marvel that, having been alive less than 3 years, my son already has more personality than most 30-year-olds I know. I revel in the joy he brings to his dad and me and everyone else he encounters. I cannot imagine what my life would be like without him. And yet...

Every day, I have to negotiate, bribe, endure, and sometimes threaten a very short, very strong-willed person. We clash over what to wear, what to eat, who descends the stairs first, whether to use the potty and when, who gets to flush, whether or not assistance is needed putting on shoes, getting into the car, and hundreds of other things. His needs always come first; mine are always last.

My son tests me like no one else. He brings me to my breaking point weekly, if not daily. And just when I am sure I cannot prepare yet another meal that will be refused and thrown away uneaten, when I am sure I cannot endure another struggle over letting the water out of the bathtub, when I am sure I will go insane if forced to play another game in which I pretend to be a Disney character, when I am sure that if my husband doesn’t walk in the door in the next 2 minutes I will run out of the house and never come back, I get up and do it all again the next day. And the next. And the next.

The aforementioned post reassured me that I’m not crazy and I’m not alone. So thank you, fellow bloggers and moms. This year, I vow to seek out more of you and drink in the wisdom of the blogosphere. It’s cheaper than therapy, that’s for sure.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: Dooce reminds us that toddlers’ first language is Utter Discontent, but that (thankfully) they don’t speak it forever.

MILESTONE O’ THE WEEK: I can’t believe this is my 200th post! I’ve been at this for over 3 years, and I’m not the most prolific blogger in the world, but even so, 200’s pretty impressive, is it not?

Mama Don’t Know Jack

I know toddlerhood is all about kids asserting their independence and testing limits and all that, but my WORD, what a pain in the butt it can be! Some days Miles has to argue with me about EVERYTHING. No, this is not new behavior. But now it’s even infiltrated our previously pleasant reading time.

Here’s an example. I was reading Miles a counting book of his. It starts with “One ostrich playing the organ” and goes up to “Ten tiny turtles playing trumpets.” Except my son adamantly began arguing with me from page one: “No. No, Mommy, dat’s NOT a organ. Dat’s a pee-no.”

“You’re right, it does look sort of like a piano, but it’s actually called an organ.”

“No, dat’s not a organ.”

Whatever. Moving on… Except he kept this up throughout the WHOLE BOOK!! Those 6 bees were not playing bongos, they were playing drums, he insisted. The 7 eagles were most certainly NOT playing electric bass, they were playing guitars. Duh, Mommy! And don’t even get me started on the newts -- excuse me, “lizards” -- playing nose flutes!! (BTW, what the heck ARE nose flutes?) Finally I just threw down the book in frustration.

But that tricky little toddler of mine, sometimes he purposely baits me. “What’s dat, Mommy?” he’ll ask innocently, pointing at a guy on a ride-on lawn mower across the street.

“That’s a lawn mower,” I tell him.

“No! Not a lawn mower, dat’s a TRACTOR,” he crows, pleased with himself for outsmarting his dim-bulb mom.

My friend S. grew so irritated with her older son’s superiority complex that one day she blurted: “I am 34 years old! I have a college degree. You are 7. Do you really think you’re smarter than me??” His prompt reply: “Yes.”

But back to the toddlers. Have I mentioned the temper on this kid?? God forbid I walk up the stairs ahead of him when HE wanted to go first. Or if I dare take too long refilling his sippy cup. The funniest thing I’ve read all week is from “Naptime is the New Happy Hour,” by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. She’s describing her toddler daughter’s temper tantrum one morning:

“… because I committed the cardinal sin of starting the coffeemaker without giving her ample opportunity to push the button. Actually, as per our tradition, I’d asked her if she would like to push the button, but it seemed she and Elmo were having a private moment and I was intruding with my rude question … But a minute later, when her bionic hearing picked up the sound of coffee brewing, she went completely mental. ‘You pushed the button! I wanted to push it! MAMA! PLEASE! I need to push the button!’ she screamed as if I wasn’t in the same room with her or even the same country. “

Oh, I’ve been there, sister. You better believe I will never again choose what floor I want on an elevator as long as Miles is around.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: I just renewed a bunch of my subscriptions for less than $5 apiece at BestDealMagazines.com. They don’t have everything, but they do have Wondertime, Redbook, Working Mother, and tons more.