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.