I am a very lucky woman, with three beautiful and healthy children who amaze me more every single day. I am also very lucky to have baby daddy, the man who decided to cash in his last paycheck and become a stay-at-home dad to the kids so that I could write this blog and he could do whatever he does when he isn’t doing that. I know that I am lucky, but that doesn’t make my life any less frustrating. Today upon waking up and realizing that it was a Monday morning, I panicked. Monday is the first day of every week where I am left to juggle baby and business without his helping hands,and this morning I find that my toddler son was already a crumpled heap of hysterics inside his crib. Baby daddy decided to take it upon himself to, without consultation with the mother/babysitter/SAINT, throw out every bottle in our home. Now I am writing this not as a rant, but more as a warning. A warning to any parent who makes a life-altering decision, without consulting the other parties involved. To take the bottle or to move the baby out of his crib or to suddenly stop feeding him cheerios for dinner, are all things that need quiet conversation between all the adults involved and nothing less is acceptable. My toddler was probably ready to lose his bottle as it was taken when Baby Daddy found a puddle of milk underneath the crib, Yes, he might have been ready, But I was not. My son, not yet two, would take a bottle only to lay down for his naptime and at night when he was drifting off to slumber. He has been an exceptional sleeper since his first birthday, when we introduced a box fan into his routine and the noise of our home was blacked out. He no longer felt like every nap time, as soon as he drifted away, we hosted an immaculate party with cake and streamers and clowns and we never once invited him. His fear of being left out of a good time shifted in to a comfortable affection for his mid day slumber and by the time he was one, slept well throughout the night and for several hours during the day. This is no longer the case. The terror and drama that occurred between this child and I cannot be adequately described without implicating one or both of us in at least one minor crime. It was such an interesting and terrifying day that I was compelled to place a  note on the casing of my doorbell. Simply threatening the health and safety of anyone willing to ring the doorbell after I had finally rocked my listless son to sleep, the first such happening since I quit breastfeeding almost a year ago. After an hour I realized that we made it through without either of us ripping out any hair and neither of us drinking anything but the bitterness of our battered pride.

Bottle 0

Mikey 1

and

Mommy -13

So I had a minor accomplishment, in that no one was harmed throughout the entire day, even if we did experience every emotion in the trainwreck station of toddlerhood. We live and we learn and really, Im the only one that is worse for the wear. He went to bed smiling sweetly and humming to the tune of his Baby Einstein cd. The question remains, What to do with Baby Daddy? Do I kill him for making this irreversible decision without me? Do I force him into solitary confinement with said toddler and come back in 12 hours when he has met the same frustrating fate as I have? Decisions.Decisions.

He is cooking dinner, I know that.

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

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.