I was so exhausted Friday afternoon that I thought it would be OK to grab a pillow and just recline a bit on the cool bathroom floor tiles as Miles bathed in the tub. It was about 3 pm, and Miles had not napped once during the entire beautiful-weather week.

I was completely horizontal, locking my eyes on my child’s, when he said something that sounded like “Pancake, Momma?”

I repeated it. He rejected my interpretation.

"Bankate, Momma. Bankate?"

Backache? I echoed back to him. Oh my sweet son, he’s asking if I have a backache. Isn’t he a sensitive love?

Bankay, bankay, bankay, he said, straddling the tub, dripping wet.

Belly ache? I wondered. I did mention I had a belly ache this morning.

Miles’s wet bare feet soon padded past my head, and he repeated this indecipherable word as he headed through my bedroom, down the hall, and over to his room. "Be careful!" I called to my naked-and-on-a-mission son, who has a pretty excellent sense of balance, but still, I should have gotten up and investigated, or at least dried his feet.

When he stalled in his room, I figured it out: Blankie.

My two-and-half-year old boy left his warm and playful tub to retrieve and deliver to his lazy ass, floor-hogging mom one of his blankets from his crib. He wanted to ensure my comfort needs were met as he sudsed up.

I was curious to see what he’d bring back, as I knew his quilts and blankets were heaped on the living room couch where we left them earlier that day.

Bankaybankaybankay (I could hear his footsteps and mantra getting louder as he got closer).

“Bankay, Momma?” Miles asked as he appeared at the bathroom doorway, a diaper cloth in his right hand. He carefully stretched the rectangular white cloth between my chin and waist, and made a sound that sounded like, There, Blankie, Momma.

Then he straddled the tub wall and plopped back in the bath. He resumed playing monster trucks with his boats (he aligns his rubber ducks along the tub wall then takes a toy ship and steamrolls over them, all the while chanting "must-huh-chuck.")

If he's not certifiably a genius then certainly his EQ has to be off the charts.

Ok, well, if it turns out that his emotional intelligence quotient is just plain ordinary, then let it be known, for sure, height-wise he's off the charts. All the pediatric physician assistants say so.

My sweet son.

 

Underwear Bandito


I know it’s sick, sick, sick
It happened when I was washing down the tub
When Miles was doing other things
Like making jewelry out of my Jockeys
But really, despite the symbolism
I'm OK with it for now
Because he's so cute cute cute

The best and worst memories from Summer 2007:

I was planning on an overnight at my friend’s Long Island shore house. Miles and I (no Chris this time) were going to drive our car onto a ferry that would transport us over the Long Island Sound. Miles is very excited to board any boat of any size, especially one that travels fast, or fash, as he says.

Aloud, I reviewed what we had shoved into the back of our car: Pack N Play, towels, swimsuits, flotation devices, clothes, sandals, sneakers, toiletry bag, diaper bag,, handbag, baby pillow and blankets, two sippy cups, and a cooler bag of milk and snacks.

“What else do we need to take the ferry to the Mary’s?” I asked Miles, knowing no answer would come.

“Wah-wah?” he responded, three fingers tapping his chin, his version of the sign for water. “Fash. Wah-wah.”

Don’t tell me he’s not a genius.

Ok, maybe if he said “Biodiesel ferry fuel” or “Forty-seven bucks for a one way ticket, including the fare for the vehicle's passage" well then I guess certifiably he’d be a genius. For now, he’s just a parent-accredited genius.

But don’t get me wrong. In this blog I tend to write only the tender stuff, and ignore the awful painful behavior befitting any two year old.

For example, on that ferry ride, Miles had such a tantrum —- the kind where he screams, hits, bites, scratches and kicks me until he gets what he wants -— that I physically restrained him in a dining booth near the ship’s snack bar. Our struggle lasted a sweaty five minutes.

I am sure we collected stares, but I didn’t care, a first for me. I think it helped me that the roar of the engine muted his yells by 50 percent, and the walls of the booth were high, so we were partially hidden as we battled wills.

The important thing is that my son and I survived our struggle; afterward we kissed and hugged and held hands as we strolled to our car parked below deck.

Since that summer day I have new, better tools geared to decrease this unwanted behavior; I have much firmer and clearer boundaries and expectations. Time-outs occur daily, sadly, but I’ve been bruise, lump, and scratch-free for weeks.

The Very Worst Summer Memory:

Me telling Miles that I didn’t give a fuck about his boo-boos.

Could it possibly get any worse? I believe this is grounds for getting your parenting license suspended.

Miles had just sunk two fistfuls of fingernails into both sides of my neck, as I carried him from the pool to the parked car. He was non-verbally telling me he didn’t want to leave, and I no longer could bear his physical aggression. It was beyond his nap time and I guess mine too. I was pissed and hurt and I forced him into the car seat, somehow irritating one of his pre-existing leg bruises.

“Boo-boo,” he cried, rubbing his shin, when I uttered the offensive phrase. How terrible of me. I spoke to my child in a manner that did not show empathy or love, right after I caused him pain. Sure, I was hurt but hey, I’m the adult here.

On my local PBS station there are interstitials that remind parents of our role as teachers; we teach our kids how to handle stress by our real life examples. What a poor lesson I taught Miles that day.

This exchange occurred the same week as the ferry struggle, and since then, after I had the equivalent of Super Nanny (my best friend Anne-Louise) visit my home for a day, times have changed dramatically for the better. Thank you God.

Is it ok to use the F-word six paragraphs before referencing God? God I hope so.