Kiss Me I’m a Hero

 

My seven year old has been a dinosaur guy since he was in diapers, but my youngest…he loves a superhero.

Not just the ones with fantastic powers either, but the regular guys that accomplish astonishing feats – battling the bad guys, rescuing the ladies, being proficient with a bullwhip.

Indy is by far his favorite. He sings the Indiana Jones theme song whenever he’s feeling adventurous. When he’s not, when he’s bordering on a tantrum or in full blown atomic meltdown mode, the first thing he’ll tell me is, “I am NOT Indiana Jones anymore. Wah!”

Lately he’s taken to adopting a Spiderman persona as well, shooting webs out of two extended index fingers and insisting on calling me Mary Jane.

The games can get a little old, especially when I have to be the bad guy.

“You be the guy with the green shirt.”

“You mean the Sandman?”

“NO! The bad guy with the green shirt.”

“Uhm. Okay, sure. I’m going to get you Spiderman, you’re in trouble now. You are no match for my bad guy powers. I will…”

“I shoot my web at you. Zip zip zip. Now you freeze. You are stuck in my web. Get down.”

Game over.

He also has a ritual for occupational hazards.

“Mommy, I hurt myself right here!”

“Where? Show me.”

He points to an invisible spot somewhere on his elbow. Occasionally there will be a scratch or a bump but often there is nothing to see.

“Rub it.”

Rubrubrub.

“Kiss it.”

Okay. Kisskisskiss.

He wipes at his eyes with the palms of his hands and then you hear it.

♪♫ duh duh duh duh duh duh duh ♪♫

He’s fine.

He also understands that the hero always gets the girl.

“Okay, Mary Jane, now I kiss you.”

Except this kiss involves putting his hands on my forehead and cheek, then rotating my head to the right so he can plant a wet one on my face, after which he will clean his lips with the back of his hand.

For some reason he understands locking lips is reserved for the truly special girls.

“Mommy, I want to kiss Dora (the Explorer) on the lips.”

I have to worry a little about his taste in women though.

Happiness is a Toy Gun (And a Bullwhip)

We were challenging the laws of physics.

Two Indiana Joneses, working together, simultaneously existing.

He was the Indiana Jones with a gun.

I was the Indiana Jones with a whip.

He led.

I followed behind humming the theme music he insisted accompany him on his mission to find Indiana Jones’s father.

A rescue. Perfect.

Along the way, bad guys were handled (or mishandled). Some of them even lost a few leaves at the end of a more-dangerous-than-you’d-assume-bullwhip. Dangerous to avocado trees at least.

Improvisations that did not amuse the first Indiana Jones:

1. When the second Indiana Jones pretended his/her whip was a venomous snake. That not a snake! That a whip!
2. When the second Indiana Jones pretended the widely ignored exercise bicycle was a horse. What you riding? That not a horse!
3. When the second Indiana Jones tried to snatch the treasure before the first Indiana Jones could get his greedy little paws on all its invisible glory. No, no, no, I get the treasure!
4. When the second Indiana Jones laid down on the trampoline and closed his/her eyes for just a moment to soak in the warm noon sun and the rare cool breeze. Indiana Jones! Indiana Jones! Indiana Jones Mommy! What you doing being dead?

I was not exactly the best candidate for the job. I occasionally got tripped by my own dragging bullwhip. I also managed to lash myself every single time on the back swing. And half way through our game, my throaty man-voice, courtesy of whatever cold I’m currently fighting off, morphed in to a futile squeaking sound only dogs can hear.

Still, we were having so much fun.

I am enjoying this kid. He makes me smile.

He also makes me want to string him up by his itty bitty toes sometimes, but I can overlook those moments.

“What will you do when he goes to school? Who will you play with?” my husband wants to know.

All I can do is stand there and blink. I don’t know.

We’re busy being Indiana Jones.

—–

Happiness abounds on Sprite Keeper’s Spin Cycle. Share your happy.

Mommy’s Little Schemer

Ah, the twos. Known for their terribleness, they represent a tumultuous period in a child’s development. I’ve navigated them four times. They pose many a challenge – the tantrums, the defiance, the lack of reason – the twos make it impossible to sit through a single peaceful meal, to embark on a shopping trip without the subsequent humiliation or migraine, to use the bathroom in privacy.

Recently though I’ve sensed a shift in our atmosphere. My two year old, my toddler is changing. It’s not just the evolution of his verbal skills, he’s different, more wily, devious. While at two he used his raw emotion and noise terrorism to bend us to his will, as he approaches three it seems he’s learning how to manipulate with language and charisma along with the occasional flat out lie.

Last Saturday, during the usual debate among siblings over what movie they would watch on the single living room television, my teen, making an executive decision, plucked “Speed Racer” from the shelf.

“No Speed Racer,” my youngest argued. “Mommy said it broken. It not working.”

“Speed Racer” of course is functioning just fine since it’s still in the shrinkwrap. Later when my daughter called him out on his fabrication, he looked at me and grinned sheepishly. He knew exactly what he was guilty of.

This morning he wanted to play with one of the girl’s board games, one that he has no clue how to actually navigate and will probably end up losing one or all of the crucial, minuscule parts to.

“I play Harry Potter, Mommy.”

“No, honey, you can’t. You’re too little to play with that game.”

He stared at me for a moment. The board games are stacked in a hall closet directly across from my bedroom door where I sat sorting though some stacks of papers.

“Okay, Mommy,” he said, grabbing for my doorknob, “I close your door, okay?”

“No, just leave it open.”

“No, Mommy, I close it.”

We went on like this for a minute or two before I realized he was trying to block my view so he could proceed to completely disregard me and pull out the board game on the sly.

Twos are terrible, but at three…they just get smarter. Oh, what fun awaits.

Rise and Shine, Sleepy Head

I wish I could say it was a sweet wake up call, but he rises impatient, wanting me at his side before his eyes are even open.

“MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY.”

It’s even more aggravating than that T-Rex alarm clock my six year old got last Christmas…at least that comes equipped with an off switch.

“MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY.”

This? This can’t be ignored.

Unless you’re my husband. Or the other children.

My day starts at a stumble, my vision sleep-blurred, my neck and shoulders bunched as I make my way to the boys’ room, grumbling, “I’m coming, I’m coming, stop shouting.”

“Mommy, I got pee. Mommy, I want milk. Mommy, I get down, I want milk, I want sleep in your bed, Mommy. I cold. I sit with you. I watch Max and Ruby with my milk. Mommy, I help you, I sit with you in your bed watch Max and Ruby, Mommy.”

“Yes, baby, yes, okay, I know, yes, okay, that’s fine, we will, yes, okay, alright, I heard you.”

This is my greeting, which I know someday I will ache for, someday when he’s grown and surly and aloof. My son, my youngest, my baby. I will long for the days when he curled in my lap, prodding me with elbows, feet, and knees to find his comfy spot among my soft and yielding anatomy.

It’s not the curled in my lap part that I mind.

Just that wild, shrieking, demanding greeting, that sets a hurried, panicked tone to the rest of my day.

How I love that boy.

How I wish he came with a snooze button.

The Hidden

My two year old is good at hiding.

He’s really good.

He’s expanded his range actually.

He no longer limits his talents to the childhood arena of hide-and-seek games, he has extended his reach. Pushed the envelope of his abilities, if you will.

For no reason whatsoever other than for his own perverse amusement, my darling cherubic son has taken to concealing himself very carefully in random, difficult to discover places. Luckily he hasn’t mastered the art of escape yet, which is very good news for my sanity, but in the meantime I’ve got to periodically sweep the house to uncover his whereabouts.

Last night he was under a barely ruffled comforter, ninja silent and perfectly still as people came in and out of the room around him, barely acknowledging the slight bump in the bedspread that couldn’t possibly be a rambunctious boy.

Last week, while I was hanging some clean laundry in our closet he was playing with his dad’s shoes at my feet. I walked out of the closet to grab some more shirts when I noticed he wasn’t there anymore. I called his name a couple of times, continued with my work then turned off the closet light and walked out in to the living room.

“You guys seen the two year old?” I asked the other kids.

Everyone shrugged, their eyes on the wide-screen, except for my ten-year-old who still had the last hide-and-seek fiasco freshly engraved in her mind.

“Oh no,” she said.

“It’s okay,” I offered. I’d wizened considerably since the last event and knew that the little miscreant was most likely right under my nose.

I went back to the closet and turned on the light. No tiny feet protruded anywhere, no little body was pressed in to a corner.

Hmmm?

We searched the other rooms. The kitchen, the bath, the shower, the cabinets.

Nothing.

I came back to the closet.

“Darling two year old,” I called out, “would you like to eat some chocolate? I have some for you.”

“I here, Mommy.” He trotted out happily from inside our walk-in, at which point I was completely convinced the kid had some type of inter-dimensional travel abilities since five seconds prior that closet had been empty.

But a little while later I discovered his secret…

Of course, the pint-sized villain had returned to the scene of the crime – an aluminum shoe rack – that he’d easily perched upon, keeping his feet conveniently off the floor and his tiny face buried away behind all of Mommy’s draped things.

See that smile. He knows he’s been busted, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he finds a better more secured hideout.

Coincidentally, he’s recently started saying “I love you, Mom”, a phrase he’d been very skillfully withholding for the entirety of his speaking life.

Trouble comes in compact, exceedingly adorable packages.

At least he can be bought.

Don’t Wake The Monkey

It was one of those mornings.

No, not one of those mornings, but the good kind.

The kind where everyone was off to a good start. Children were shipped off to school with a smile, the sun was blazing in a bright blue sky, birds were chirping (and none of them were swooping in for an attack). Sounds like a myth, doesn’t it? But really, it was lovely.

And a certain two year old was on his best behavior.

I mean, so good that I had to pause for a moment to appreciate the shiny, happy, perfectness of it all. He was cooperative, he was delightful. There was giggling and smiling and an abundance of painfully adorable phrases were shared.

On the way home from drop offs – Mommy, I love house. I hug house. Yeah.

Bouncing on the bed – Mommy, I funny. I jumping. Whee. Catch me.

Choosing a movie to watch together – Mommy, Willy Wonka amazing chocolatier, yeah. Yeah. I watch Willy Wonka. I want squirrel.

Trust me, he was so cute it hurt.

Then he went down for a nap a little later than usual. So late that less than an hour later I had to wake him up so we could go pick up his brother and sister from school. Sometime during that brief sleep, my pleasant pre-schooler was swapped for a growling, rabid monkey wearing his clothing and a diaper.

No words could soothe the monkey.

No food would appease him.

The monkey would not accept tokens of affection.

The monkey would not be comforted through gentle gestures.

The monkey hung around until bedtime, shrieking, whining, crying, and once even hitting his big brother with a plastic baseball bat.

If that monkey had started flinging poo, I would have returned him to whatever zoo he’d escaped from.

The monkey is gone today, but for future reference never EVER wake the monkey if you can help it.

HELP, My Shirt is Trying to Eat Me

My son despises his clothes.

This is a recent development. On any given day I can be expected to dress and redress him ten to fifteen times in the same outfit I find strewn about the house whenever I’m so careless as to take my eyes off of him.

Tonight, his clothing escape trick didn’t work as well as he planned. He’d been calling for me from the bedroom as I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner. There was screaming involved, possibly tears, but since these reactions often accompany anything from a stubbed toe to a toy box that won’t open, I try not to get unnecessarily worked up.

“If you need me to help you, come here and tell me what’s wrong,” I shouted over the running faucet.

Over trundled my little guy in a frenzied state, wearing his surfboard tee as a tube top.

Of course, my first reaction, being the wonderful, sensitive parent that I am, was to snap a picture of him for later use. Every good story is illustrated isn’t it?

Afterward I tried to pry him out of his shirt to no avail. I really have no idea how this sucker managed to put both arms through this fairly narrow head hole, but I was unable to recreate the maneuver. Instead he had to shimmy his shirt downward over his bottom, effectively removing his shorts in the process…

I’m pretty sure that was his plan all along.

And the nakedness ensued.