This morning was sheer torture. SHEER TORTURE. I don’t remember how it started but it involved Middle. Of course. He is three. Three and torture begin with the same letter. And that should not be a surprise. He was freaking out over nothing. Which is fine if I was talking about a human with the ability to reason and express himself fully. It would be fine if I was talking about a human with the capacity to understand the concept of time and consequences. It would be fine if I was talking about a human with the capacity to understand choices, but alas I am not. I am talking about a three year old BOY. A boy who needs time, who needs warnings, who clearly needs more sleep than he thinks he does. A boy who needs an extra hug, because he is so easily exasperated that sometimes I just can’t deal. He is so much different than Oldest, a girl. And of course I don’t manage him as I should. Instead I just start yelling and that doesn’t help.
This morning was not an atypical morning here in Cozy Town. It started off fine. I don’t recall when it happened but all of a sudden it was in full force. Oh now it has come back to me. He got a lovely building type thing for Hanukah. It is octagons that interlock with one another. He loves it. He has played with it non-stop since he received it. Well this morning he wanted to bring his “shoot gun” with him to our babysitters.
Me: “Uh, yeah, no. You are not bringing that with you to Aunt’s house.”
Middle: “But I will keep track of my shoot gun.” Begin slow whine
Me: “Middle, I said no. You cannot bring it with you.”
Middle: “Nooooo.” Hitting Baby. Throwing things.
Me: “Stop hitting your brother. I said you cannot bring that with you.”
Middle: Crying now… “wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeee”
Me: thinking, “Someone PUHLEASE punch me in the face.”
The other kids are cooperating just fine. Coats and boots. I bring Baby out to the car with explicit instructions to the others to stay inside. It is freezing out and I do mean freezing out. “It is so cold outside that my boogies froze,” I say. I return to find the two of them in the breeze way scrounging around for mittens/gloves/hats/scarves/ anything to cover themselves in. I have NO idea where any of their mittens/gloves/hats/scarves are so good luck to them. But they each came up with something. Middle found a pair of my gloves. Oldest found one of her gloves and a hat. Of course Middle, whining, asked me for help with his gloves. All he does is whine I SWEAR. It is so tortuous! I help him with his gloves, then they are not right. Oldest has both of her hands in one glove, such a problem solver she is. I usher her out to the car as his second melt down begins. I just can’t figure him out.
He has one more melt down before we leave the driveway.
He is now safely strapped in his seat and the whining continues.
I dubbed him the Hostage Taker. He screams when we have music on that he doesn’t want the music on. There are four of us in the car. He. Is. A. hostage. Taker. And this morning is no different. Only this morning I don’t even bother turning on the music.
We make our way towards our destination and the whining continues, on and on. My stomach is in a knot, my back is tense. I can’t make out his words. I yell, again. “TELL ME WHAT IS THE MATTER.” “I CANNOT UNDERSTAND YOU WHEN YOU WHINE.” “Take a deep breath and tell me in your big boy voice what the problem is.” He takes a semi-deep breath and manages to get out that his hands are really really cold. I melt. “Rub your hands together Middle.” “It will warm them up a bit.”
I know that I am a good mother, but man oh man sometimes it is so hard. He, of course, was fine at our babysitters. Good as gold. Isn’t that the way?