My youngest son has the personality of Attila the Hun when he is angry, minus the mass genocide. He is a very strong little man, and when he is upset about something, he wants you to know it. Really really know it. You know my middle son, Jakob, the one who has come up with such lovely Jakeisms as “Mommy, is that your bomb?” and “I poop, blue”  and “A round of a Blahs Please!” He has many times, been at the receiving end of my 16 month old’s fiery wrath. To put the words on paper, does not do them justice. Jakob is an entirely different breed of cute. You know that Jerry Macguire kid we all fell in love with? He was cute, in that sarcastic, cynical old soul sort of way. Jake is like that kid, except he has the wit of a genius and an ability to make you laugh over anything and everything. Michael, the 16 month old, was frustrated at his John Deer riding tractor. He loves to stand on it, balancing his weight from foot to foot, and digging a permanent resting place in my throat, for my heart. I can never relax around this kid, he is always climbing onto things, and jumping off of them. He loves this tractor, but prefers standing atop it, rather than sitting. For the last time that day, he had fallen off and was throwing an “Im pissed and you are gonna know it” tantrum, squealing like I stopped feeding him a week ago. His face was red, he was pulling his own hair and all of us were watching him flail around on the floor in protest. It’s a phase, it has to be a phase. Toddlerdom is akin to two years in the throes of war, any normal toddler can go from being a perfect angel to sprouting horns and carrying a pitchfork with little to no notice. This is normal, as angry as he sounds, I know that this is normal. (crosses fingers) I walk by him doing my best to ignore his insanity, and I mutter under my breath “Why won’t you let go of your anger, Mike?” I felt this was an appropriate question, as he thrashed on the floor at my feet, screaming his little lungs out. He was angry, and his tiny little fists beating on the carpet were evident of this. Jake, my resident commentator was sitting on the breakfast stool watching the scene unravel. His face was stoic, his mannerism calm and subdued. He was eating his string cheese, one rebellious bite at a time. He didn’t smile. He simply announced to the room : “He will never let go of his anger.” before breaking into a wide grin. He giggled and we all collapsed into laughter, the baby following suit and swinging towards the healthy side of the bi-polar spectrum. He is quick to let us know he is uncomfortable, but he also can giggle like a pro.He may never let go of his anger, but man if it isnt entertaining while it’s here. This has been a signature sentence in our home since then, being exclaimed whenever someone throws a tantrum. If I forget the laundry detergent at the store and mumble curses under my breath, I am met with the simple phrase “He will never let go of his anger.” If someone hogs the rest of the chocolate milk, “He will never let go of his anger.” Its a funny little way to lighten the drama level in the house, to remember that throwing a fit is about as sensible as jumping on a glass coffee table. A baby can pull it off, but you don’t even want to try it. One day, when I can no longer write and my fingers have dry heaved their last bits of data, and the monkey butler robots have taken over the internets, I will have these little moments written down for my children to read. Little snippets of the life we share through the years. I didn’t do so hot on their baby books, I admit it. But the stories we will continue to share. They will love it, Why?

Because I’m their mother and I said so.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.

“Mom” he says to me through the door that divides us, his voice sounding weak and muffled by the distance. “Can I come in?” he asks as politely as he can muster.I wipe my tear stained face, news coming across in emails that morning that had turned the weekend into a quivering lump of worthlessness. He and his brother had only been home for a few hours due to some wicked car trouble at dad’s house. He had heard me, even though I had tried to stifle the quiet tears by sobbing into my pillow. Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door of my bedroom and tip toed over to my bed, resting his hand on my shoulder. He looked so much older this week, the color in his eyes slightly drained from the weeks worth of drama detail. He has had a difficult life in these short 7 years and I could see it on his face. I smiled at him the best I could and pulled him into bed with me. Im a firm believer in being honest with my children and talking with them about their lives, instead of ignoring the facts and pretending to be perfect. “Were you crying, mom?” He matter-of-facts me like a sucker punch to the nose. “I was” I tell him, putting my strong mommy hat back on and sucking back the inevitable sobs, choking that sound that seeps from my chest whenever I am deeply saddened by something. “I am very sad today, and Im sorry that I am sad while you are here.” I tell him, trying to be reassuring. “I promise it has nothing to do with you, mommy is just sad about work.” It was the truth, nothing anyone had done had made me sad, it was just a disappointing and confusing set of circumstances. I weighed the pro’s and con’s of explaining it all to him, he has been through so much that I dare not burden him with problems during his visits. I breath in sharply, waiting for the hammer to drop and the questions to resume. “Do you want to pray?” He asks me, shocking my system better than any defibrillator could ever do. We have folded our hands as a family on many occasions, but a lazy sunday morning generally wasn’t the time nor the place. We have always been a logical group, prayer was reserved to blessing our food (may it  bless and nourish our bodies) and for saying goodnight. Praying wasn’t something we turned to in a problem situation, we always hunkered down together to weather the storms,  but he seemed sure and solid in his path. He folded his hands in front of his face and tilted his head to the floor. He squeaked out a quick prayer while I sat wide-eyed staring at him. He showed such reverence, such solace. When he was finished, he peeked out of one eye at me, smiling ear to ear. “Feel better?” he asks as I nod in utter amazement. I did feel better, I dont know why, but I did. He hops off the bed, and turns only once he reached the doorway. “Now get up, we have work to do.” he says with a tone of confidence, I wonder if he had gotten that tone from television’s version of the strict authoritative parent. I listen, pulling my body from the covers, feeling like molasses under the weight of that morning. “What work do we have to do?” I ask him, pulling my hair back into a pony tail and pushing a pair of sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. “We have snowflakes to make” he giggles, and bounds down the stairs with me right behind. We did have snowflakes to make, purple and orange ones from construction paper half a decade old, still wrapped tightly in its package. We made tiny one’s and gigantic ones. We pasted them merrily to the fridge, and by the time all was said and done, I had forgetten all about being sad. Perhaps prayer isnt so bad after all.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.