Beating My Child

Presley is a dawdler. The more you ask him to to hurry, the more he will try to make your objective a painfully slow process, and in most instances, it becomes extraordinarily frustrating. For example, we live in a second-story apartment. For reasons I'll never know, it's always taken a great deal of coaxing, begging, and threatening to get him up the flight of stairs upon returning home from an outing. He'll just never go on his own accord. After awhile, it occurred to him that my pleas and threats don't mean a whole lot. Especially when I've got four bags of groceries on each arm that are starting to dig into my flesh. I ask politely through pained grunts to please hurry up the stairs before Mommy loses two very important limbs, and he stares at me blankly like he hasn't even heard the request. Or more often, he giggles at my helplessness. The little brute.

I, with my motherly observatory skills, have come to notice the competetive side in this kid as he gets older. He doesn't like to lose, and everything is a game he must win. Particularly, everything is a race. I realized I could use this to my advantage, and a couple months ago I tried out a new trick to get him up the stairs without such great efforts. And it worked! In fact, it's been failproof every single time since the first day I used it.

Me: "Presley, please go upstairs."
Him: (blank stare)
Me: (louder) "Presley, I said please. Please go upstairs, right now!"
Him: (giggle)
Me: (very loud) "Uh-oh! Presley . . . if you don't get up there right now, I'm going to BEAT YOU!"

And I put one foot on the bottom step to let him know I mean business. Sure enough, he'll have none of that. He races past me and gallops to the top, cheering, "I won! I wooonnnn! Mommy, I beat you!"

Did I mention that the walls in our building are paper-thin? Standing in the outer hallway, I can hear everything that goes on in all four units. Every word, pretty much verbatim. And it dawned on me a few days ago that every time we get home, three other families with children are hearing me bark, "PRESLEY! I'M GOING TO BEAT YOU!"

I'm surprised that I haven't yet been visited by Child Protective Services.

A Hairy Decision

Presley was completely bald until he was a year old, and even after he sprouted some hair, it was only a little tuft of fluff on top until he was close to two. But by the time his hair really grew in, there was no way we were cutting it off. Gorgeous blonde locks to frame his perfect angelic face. He was never once mistaken for a girl. And with a name like Presley Steele, he was born to have Rock & Roll hair. It fit his free-spirit and his deep, husky little voice. I was in love with it. (I'll admit that I was also in love with how his father's pretentious side of the family scoffed at it.) But it wasn't just my own vanity. Pres loved his hair, too. Whenever you asked if he wanted a hair cut, it was a flat, "No. No further questions, please" in toddler-speak. And I'm a firm believer in letting kids rock their own style, within reason. Long hair is within reason. The day he asks for an eyebrow ring will be met with much different results.

At three and a half, he's far more active than he was, say, last summer. I always picked him up from school with flushed cheeks during the warmer months, but this year he's been coming home red, panting, and soaked. I honestly didn't know that little kids could sweat so much. I thought that didn't start until puberty. Ha. Anyway, he's complained a few times recently about being "itchy" because all of his long beautiful hair sticks to his face and neck. It's extremely uncomfortable, and impossible to remedy without a rubber band. I know this from personal experience, which is why my hair is up 24/7 from May to September in Kansas. The weather is sticky enough as it is. Itchy hair grabbing at your defenseless neck hardly makes it more bearable. He may be cool enough to pull it off, but no way am I sending my kid to school in a ponytail.

















Saturday morning, I bribed him into a haircut. I held back tears as an impossibly huge pile of hair grew on the floor, one pass of the clippers at a time. By the end, I was beside myself. I couldn't believe the transformation. I haven't seen the shape of his head since he was an infant. He looked like a completely different kid, and I didn't know whether to cry out in woeful remorse or celebrate that he didn't lose one bit of beauty with his hair. Naturally, I opted for the latter so he wouldn't read my face and get upset himself. I think he was in shock as much as I was. We styled it in a little mohawk, and I am still agape and doing double takes two days later. I didn't want to do it, but I'm glad we did. He's staying cool and spending more time being a rambunctious boy and less time brushing the hair from his eyes. I miss it. I miss running my hands through it and tucking it behind his ears and admiring it. But the new cropped 'do has given me free access to planting kisses on the back of his little neck anytime I want. And that's worth it.

Big Wheel Keep on Turnin'

So I'm working two jobs again. Lucky for me, this time it doesn't involve slinging liquor to pompous, belligerent, chauvinists. My soul is still marred from that ungodly period of life. Unlucky for me, it's still a second job. And it's labor intensive. I am nearing the level of exhaustion that I felt as a new parent. Where everything is somehow funny, but you cry instead of laugh?

Ah, yes. And I must somehow keep it together for Presley's sake. In his little world, there is never an excuse for slowing down. I might've put in 14 hours today, but dang it, I'd better have it in me to play Legos. And tickle him. And console his multiple bouts of blood curdling screams throughout the night and wee hours of the morning when he has nightmares.

Boy, am I tired.

I actually wrote down my schedule today, just to see it on paper. It put everything into perspective. Wednesdays are alternating, which is why they're in parenthesis:

M-T-(W)

6:30 am - Wake up

6:45 am - Wake up again. Cry a little.

7:00 am - Shower, get ready, cuddle Presley

7:55 am - Drop Presley off at school

8:10 am - Get to work. Late. As always.

5:00 pm - Get off work

5:15 pm - Pick Presley up from school

5:30 pm - Change clothes, cuddle Presley, eat if time allows

5:45 pm - Drive to second job

6:00 pm - Start laboring in sweaty warp-speed

10:30 pm - Get home from work

11:00 pm - Grit teeth through the soreness

12:00 am - Pass out

2:00 am - Console Presley back to sleep

2:15 am - Pass out

4:00 am - Get Presley back to sleep. Again.

4:15 am - Pass out

(W)-T-F

6:30 am - Wake up

6:45 am - Wake up again. Cry a little.

7:00 am - Shower, get ready, cuddle Presley

7:55 am - Drop Presley off at school

8:10 am - Get to work. Late. As always.

5:00 pm - Get off work

5:15 pm - Pick Presley up from school

6:00 pm - Cook dinner

7:00 pm - Clean up dinner

8:00 pm - Bathe Presley

9:00 pm - Tuck Presley into bed

9:30 pm - Go to the gym

10:30 pm - Shower

12:00 am - Pass out

2:00 am - Console Presley back to sleep

2:15 am - Pass out

4:00 am - Get Presley back to sleep. Again.

4:15 am - Pass out

And . . . REPEAT.

Shouldn't I have more to show for this? Oceanfront property? An oiled-up sexy Latin manservant? Anyone?

Bachelorette Pad

So this is it. My first "official" all-alone-by-myself weekend. Well, with Presley, of course. Ted's five hours away in Iowa City playing a gig with an old bandmate, and I'm left to get a taste of what's to come in about 6 weeks. Holy moly. I realized last night that I've never lived alone. Like, ever. It's much creepier than I expected. I find myself needing to fill the space and the silence up with something. Anything. Not that Ted and I sit around gabbing all night. We don't really talk much. But there's definitely something different about not having another (non-toddler) presence in the house. Noises that I've become accustomed to and even comforted by are making me nervous and agitated. That weird quiet that sets in when the refrigerator stops running. The creaky roof when a gust of wind hits it. The cat eating her dry kibbles in the kitchen. They seem foreign . . . especially at night. I stayed up until 3 am watching back-to-back episodes of What Not To Wear. I could not, for the life of me, keep my eyes closed. 3 am? Hello? On a rebellious night, I MIGHT make it to 11 pm. Usually I'm dead to the world by 10:15, whether I like it or not. Despite the fact that I'm exhausted to the point of delirium, I have a feeling tonight will prove the same fate.

The day was mostly a blur. Ted took my car, and his tags expired two days ago. Yep. I've been housebound on top of going stir-crazy. Plus, I'm broke as a joke until my next payday. Even if I could leave, I couldn't afford to do anything. So I bundled Presley up and we walked. And walked. And walked. It felt like Fall today. So beautiful. Sunny, not one cloud in the sky. Crisp air, and so dry. If everything weren't so green and plump, I'd swear we were heading into November. We walked until the poor kid plopped down on the sidewalk and declared I must carry him the for rest of our neighborhood exploration. Exactly what I'd hoped would happen. Little pink cheeks and a sweaty brow, begging for a nap as long as he didn't have to walk anymore. Like a good mom, I made him walk the two blocks home. This is probably eight miles to a three-year-old. Boy, did he sleep. Nary a protest. Victory!

Somehow, I just managed to watch a full episode of Zoey 101. You know, the JamieLynn Spears show. Campy teenage utter crap. I don't even know how I wound up on that channel. But it wasn't just background fuzz. I literally. Watched. It. I think I even asked Presley to move out of the way of the TV at one point when his little head invaded my line of sight. Proof that my brain is numb from this ordeal. My sister assured me last night that it gets easier. I won't always be so painfully restless. I know that eventually I'll get used to ruling my own roost and come to love the freedom. For now, it still feels awkward to cook for two instead of three. It feels like a death has transpired, not hearing another breathing pattern in the room. I suppose in many ways, one has . . .