Children don’t understand decorum.
They don’t know that society has rules. That society demands you behave in a certain way in certain places. It’s called being civilized.
Children are not civilized. My two-year-old might as well be a rabid animal most of the time.
Getting him to behave the way one is supposed to behave is impossible.
Before he was even a twinkle in my eye, I had some ideas about what I wanted to teach my hypothetical son. Most of us do; without necessarily meaning to, we all take stock of what worked for us as kids, what we vow never to do as parents, what values we consider most important, etc. When you finally have children of your own, it’s a bit of a thrill to realize just how important you are to them, and how much influence you have over their development.
But my son is only two; it’s a bit early to tell him to always wear a rubber and when to double down. He needs to be able to swing off a tee before I can toss any real heat his way. But that doesn’t stop me from occasionally buzzing one by his ear.
A year ago at this time, my son was just starting to walk. So installing the typical holiday furnishings was an invitation for disaster.
He’s learned a lot in the last year of his life (for example, he’s graduated to running, nonstop), but he certainly hasn’t learned common sense. As such, having a large tree festooned with shiny things, fragile things, and strings of lights, remains a risk. A risk we’re willing to take to make sure he has a proper Christmas experience, especially now that he’s a lot more aware of what the season brings.
So I’ve resurrected last year’s post to remind myself that despite some growing pains, things have mostly changed for the better. He’s still a wrecking machine, but he can now sing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” as he annihilates ornaments with Santa Claus’s face on them. He’s still excited about the brightly-colored boxes under the tree, but now he knows that there are actual things inside those gifts that are more fun to play with then wrapping paper and boxes. And he now knows not to tug on the tree.
Of course, that hasn’t stopped him from tugging on the tree, pulling ornaments off the tree and spiking them into the ground, and tugging on the tree.
ORIGINAL POST: Woe, Christmas Tree
They supposedly have all these rules and restrictions about who can and can’t vote. But this is America: We don’t make rules. We break them.
And so my son totally got his vote on this morning, and I have the picture to prove it.
On Tuesday I wrote about the possibility of hitting my son.
Mostly because, lately, he won’t seem to stop hitting me!
I am not against corporal punishment.
But if my kid swats at my face one more time, I am totally putting him in time out!
There’s been a lot of chatter lately about the texting habits of parents. The tenor of the conversations is mostly negative, and a lot of words have been spent excoriating parents for using their phones when they should be watching their kids.
I think we’re all guilty of it, to some extent. And sure, sometimes it’s dangerous and irresponsible, and sometimes it’s neglectful, and sometimes it’s rude.
But sometimes it’s also necessary. And it’s not always wrong.
For the past few weeks, we were in the middle of a move, which is no picnic under the best circumstances and just about impossible with a toddler underfoot. So, in order to get everything done, we shipped the kid to his grandparents.
It worked out well; we were able to pack up and relocate a lot more quickly, and no miniature humans were injured in the process. We even got to go to dinner once or twice without needing to wrangle a psycho into a highchair.
Little did we know that while we were taking care of business, our son was being brainwashed.
Recent circumstances are forcing me to consider explaining some of life’s most difficult truths to my young son.
He is still a few months away from his second birthday, but some conversations just can’t wait. The world just moves too darn fast to take any chances.
It’s time I talk to him about “the birds and the bees.”
Ah, tantrums. Even the word sucks. But it’s got nothing on the experience.
When you have a toddler, they are impossible to avoid. But, rumor has it there are ways to defuse them.
If you’ve got the balls.