I'd take a few dozen jolts to the nuts over a pot of coffee any morning of the week

I'd take a few dozen jolts to the nuts over a pot of coffee any morning of the week



It has begun. At nearly three years old, my boy has hit the dreaded terribles. Terribles I tell you! As if all the world, at least his world in this house, revolves around every whim and desire of him. And in a way, on occasion, it sure seems to. When a boy is kicking you for five minutes as you hold your rage back and try to reason with him, try to convince him that in fact, he does not really want to kick me, enstead he wants to fill my life with googly eyes and huggies, and that the consequences of his actions will relinquish an unforgivable life of servitude to me; well, sure, the world does revolve around him. Sure I could go do something else and let him scream bloody murder for an hour, which I don't mind doing from time to time, but try to do anything with that ear piercing curdling scream and head banging against the floor ringing in your ears. Try to make a phone call, or play with your 1 year old while he does that. And tell me the world does not revolve, or at least, shudder in his wake.



"So The Boy kicked me for 5 minutes straight this morning on the couch." I told Lilly.

"And you let him do it?" Was her sincere response.

I gave her that deadpan stare, you know, the way we glare at teenagers when they incredulously spit out some nonsensical bull their college professor just planted in their young impressionable minds. "Oh of course Lilly, I love it when he kicks me repeatedly, over and over again, systematically alternating between my nuts and my face. There is truly no better way to wake up in the morning. I'd take a few dozen jolts to the nuts over a pot of coffee anyday of the week."



And then, this morning he refused to allow me, to actually allow me to go get Lacey from her crib. 'NOOOOOO! Don't. Wake. Up Lacey!' He systematically repeated from the top of his childish lungs for 10 minutes straight. Sure I tried to reason with him at first. I tried diversionary tactics, tried to convince him to go and knock on her door, and how much fun it would be, and to go play with her in her crib. All the while he was rolling around the floor outside her door, arms flailing and repeatedly landing in the cat shit near by, legs twitching and head convulsing agianst the now softer than his head, marble tile below it.



"Okay kid, okay. See now, this is how things will go down. I will go and get Lacey, and you will stay here thrashing your body about as long as you dam well want to. Don't let me get in your way. k?"

So I told him that. And that's just what I did. But nooooo, once again my sanity is in his servitude. As he followed me around, staying just at my peripheral on the edge of the room as I sat down on the couch and fed the girl. All the while continuing his newly discovered male hormonal rage for another ten minutes.



"NooOoOOO! Don't. Get. Lacey! NOooOO. Don't Wake. Her. Up." On and on and on. Not even the squeelly and parent-sanity-shattering squeels of spongebob could derail his current train of thought. The madness of it all. The madness.

It is amazing to see how he is progressing each day. His ever increasing ability to communicate coherently, most of the time of course. His expanding vocabulary. His ability to actually reason and make informed decisions are rapidly increasing. Truly amazing to watch an inferior being become human. And it's so horrible. Just horrible at the same time. Make it stop, good lord make it stop.



This is what we do to Lilly when she gets home from work late. 'Just try and get out of that car unscathed woman. I dare ya.' hey, he said it, not me.