Brock, who graduated from preschool this week, seemed to really understand the day. He asked for extra hugs from me, and paid me compliments throughout the day. Though, it's amazing how quickly the appreciation and admiration slips away. Which became so immediately apparent today as I caught him with a plastic knife, carving patterns into our leather ottoman. This discovery intensely angered me. I momentarily contemplated a physical consequence, but instead, in my maddest of mad voices and mannerisms, sent him to time out. He did not appear sufficiently remorseful, so as I walked past him on the stairs, I broke his plastic knife in half and threw it in the trash. Along with the plastic fork and spoon, all of which he had acquired from Hen House, and carefully carried all the way home, while riding his bike, so as to "start a collection" (as I later found out after disposing of them all). A little part of me felt awful for destroying his bizarrely meaningful plastic-ware. Part of me also felt, this is tough love. A lesson that needs to be learned. He needs to think before he acts. This is just furniture, what if he did this to an animal, or person!? This evening, when he overheard me telling the story, he reported, "it's healing well". Wishful thinking there, Brock. Maybe if the cow were still alive. He later wrote "mom" and "(drawing of an eye) (drawing of a heart) u" on the Magnidoodle. Ugh. Forgiven. Melt my heart.
The other weekend, while trying to get ready for Xander's First Communion, the boys were making me crazy. So loud. Destructive. Obstinate. Getting them dressed was an absolute fiasco. In fact, George pooped in the tub (which I would say, scared the shit out of him, but that had already happened) while all 3 were bathing, so we had to switch to the shower. Matt was out golfing, therefore unavailable to help. Finally, after getting them all mostly dressed, it was my turn. I stood in the bathroom attempting hair and make up while the 3 of them played in their room. In my head, I'm thinking, just stay in there. Just play quietly. Enjoy yourselves. Please don't do anything that requires my attention...and in the midst of this thought stream, Curtis saunters into the bathroom and stands beside me. I can feel the agitation. WHY IS HE IN HERE? They always touch everything in the bathroom, nothing of which should be touched. Don't touch my hair brush. Or my tooth brush. Or my deodorant. Or my bobby pins. Definitely NOT my make up. And DEFINITELY NOT my hair straightener. Curtis rests his hands on the counter. I can tell, he is surveying, contemplating what to touch first...and I say it, sternly, "Go away, Curtis." In his usual, laid back, innocent, unsuspecting way, he replies, "Why mommy?" I'm so annoyed, I want to scream, but I simply say, "Because I don't want you guys in here or near me right now. Mommy needs a moment to get ready, and you are making me crazy." He just looks at me, without missing a beat, and says, "But I love you, mommy." Defeated. Fine. You win. Stay in the bathroom. Touch all my stuff. I kiss his forehead. "I love you too, Curtis." With one statement, I'm reduced to puddles. Curtis does this, all the time. Staying mad at that child is nearly impossible.
Mitch, my big lug. My baby. He can do no wrong. For the rest of my life, I will feel horrible for letting him fall down the stairs. All the way down, our 14, steep, hard, barely carpeted stairs. He is not only growing at a physically inhuman rate, but seemingly meets developmental milestones at the same alarming rate. Just moments prior to his first stairs encounter, he attempted and failed to get up, over, and past the step in our room - just as he had failed a million times before...until I left him unattended. For 45 SECONDS. Why!!!??? Why at that moment? Why not while I'm watching, and laughing at your futile attempts to get over that step? Not so futile now. Nope, he did it. And now that he survived going down, he is obsessed with climbing back up those 14 steps. Sitting at 4 months, crawling by 5, climbing by 7, walking by 10, dominating all his brothers by age 2, and tackling on the offensive line of a pro team by 22. Right? Right.