My son is an anarchist.
It’s not really his fault, since all toddlers are anarchists. It’s just a stage he’s going through. I hope.
Maybe not in the true sense of the word, since they aren’t so much about politics or even abolishing or ignoring rules; they don’t exactly grasp the concept of rules, so it might be a little unfair to label them. But it’s clear they hate rules or boundaries of any kind, even if they can’t articulate why. Regardless, whether my son is technically an anarchist or just behaves like one, the end result is essentially the same: CHAOS.
Living with an anarchist is hard work.
My son has been involved in a few violent incidents recently. And I’m not just talking about the constant finger-biting he does when we try to brush his teeth, though that is not fun either. I don’t care if you’re Batman, getting bit HURTS.
Thankfully, my son has not yet shown any signs of being a biter – it’s almost hard to blame him for the biting he has done, seeing as it only happens when we stick a bubble-gum flavored finger in his mouth.
No, the violence I’m talking about is the hand-to-hand kind. Well, the hand-to-face kind, as in my son’s hand and another kid’s face.
Over the summer, when my son was still firmly in “baby” territory, I wrote about the Toddler Menace.
This past weekend, with my son now a toddler himself, my words came back to haunt me.
Here I was, complaining about my son scaring me when apparently what I should be worrying about are the things that are scaring him.
Because apparently babies can have nightmares.
God knows what they entail.
I want my son to like superheroes.
I don’t much care if he gets into comics or not; I never did and it didn’t stop me from digging the heroes they created. Besides, if anything, today’s superhero-saturated culture makes it easier than ever to get exposed to comic book characters without actually reading comic books. And I’m not worried that my son won’t go through a superhero phase at some point. He’s a little boy; whether caused nature (genetics), nurture (my guidance), their sheer prevalence in today’s pop culture or just the natural law of childhood, it seems pretty likely that he will. I certainly won’t stop him.
But I may try to steer him towards one superhero in particular…
It’s one of the cliches of parenting that kids grow up fast. One minute you’re dreading dealing with diapers, the next you’re teaching them how to drive their flying cars (these have gotta happen eventually, right?).
Not only is everyone aware of this belief, pretty much everyone accepts it as well, whether they have kids themselves or not. Of course, once someone does have kids it’s no longer just a belief; it becomes immediately apparent that the cliche is 100% true. So much so that that terrible sitcom convention – wherein an older couple suddenly decides they want a new baby, usually after the mom is exposed to someone else’s kid (and always because the show needs an infusion of cute) – suddenly makes perfect sense.
Except Oliver. That kid sucked.
We are one of the lucky ones: our child sleeps.
Wary of all the horror stories, we opted to give Cry It Out a shot. It worked like a charm (and I recommend it up and down). When our son goes to sleep, he stays asleep. For 11 to 12 hours. Every night.
But, every once in a while, when he’s not feeling well or is tossing and turning, we will let him sleep in our bed.
It never goes well.
My son is a real baby.
Of course, by developmental standards, he’s not a baby anymore. He can “walk” and “talk” and understand things like a toddler, and he’s definitely not the size of a baby, except maybe those fat asses you see on Maury Povich and Jerry Springer. When you measure by those benchmarks, he’s a toddler.
But if you measure by his ability to withstand pain? He’s a baby, through and through.
The first Super Bowl I remember seeing was the Redskins/Raiders in 1983. My parents sent me to bed before the game was over but I snuck onto the stairs and listened as best I could from around the corner. I didn’t miss much. The Raiders won 38-9.
That Raiders blowout was sandwiched between a Dolphins loss I don’t remember (the year before, to the Redskins) and a Dolphins loss I do remember (the following year, to the 49ers). Man, it’s been a long time since they’ve been in that game. Like Marino himself, I expected a lot more than just that one.
Hopefully my son will get luckier than me.
On Monday, we dropped our kid off at his first daycare session. There was a fair amount of screaming, quite a bit of crying and a desperate need for some hand-holding.
And that was just my wife. Rimshot!