A quick rant while he’s asleep.

This must be quick, because “asleep” is becoming a rare state these days. My child, the champion sleeper, has abruptly decided that sleep is overrated. Needless to say, this is driving me NUTS.

(What’s that joke about the steering wheel on the crotch and the punch line is “driving me nuts”? Someone?)

It’s not that he’s getting up early, because although he did get up at the ass-crack of dawn this morning, usually he’s a late sleeper. It’s getting him to sleep. HE DOES NOT WANT TO GO TO SLEEP. And that makes me want him to go live somewhere else, like maybe at Grandma’s. Grandma would probably find his late-night shenanigans charming. She’d feed him cookies and the two of them could watch her DVD box set of the Dean Martin show until he passed out from boredom and embarrassment for poor old Deano.

(Every time I visit my parents my mom says, “I thought we’d watch Dean Martin tonight!” And I have to remind her for the 3,000th time that I don’t really deeply enjoy watching drunk people warble popular classics of the ‘50s and then trip over some props. Maybe a few minutes of it, okay, but we’re inevitably trapped watching one episode after another at my parents’ house with the volume cranked up to a window-rattling decibel, and at some point my mother will turn to me and ask, “What are you crying about?” and I’ll say “I didn’t know I was” and then I’ll go upstairs and try to drown myself in their bathtub only I added too many Epsom Salts and I keep bobbing to the surface.)

As I was saying, he does not want to sleep. At all. We put him down at 9 p.m., and for the next three hours, every five minutes is another request from his room. First he needs A Drink. Then he needs a Toy. Then he needs Something, but He Doesn’t Know What. Then he needs a Hug and a Song. Then a Better Song. Then he wants me to Stay and Chat. And on, and so forth.

I have tried various tactics, none of which have worked. They include but are not limited to: Calming Explaining That Sleep is Important. Ignoring. Yelling. Tears. Insisting that He Fall Asleep NOW Damn It. More Tears. Attempting to Ignore, but Failing. Yelling at Husband.

You see? Failproof! Nothing could be wrong with my strategies! I am going to write one of them child rearing books that show how to rear a child good because I know.

Last night, at 11:30, after an hour of vigorous denial over the goings-on near Henry’s room, I realized that all was quiet and went to check things out. I found Scott sleeping on the floor of Henry’s room while Henry, fully upright and alert, chatted with his father’s inert form. “Darth Vader goes whoosh and the Storm Trooper turns him into Darth Vader and when I’m at the playground I go whoosh down the slide but sometimes I fall and I get a little scrape but I’m okay,” he said as his father snored lightly against the carpeting.

This had better end soon because it's cutting into my precious blog-writing and -reading time.

I think what he meant was DON'T GROW IT OUT.

We don’t give Henry candy, as a rule; I believe in these things in moderation but Henry DOES NOT BELIEVE IN MODERATION, so I always think, why make trouble for myself? Why give him candy and then have to listen to him beg for candy every day?

Because, that’s why! Because apparently I didn’t have enough of a headache before!

After his last haircut I granted him the post-haircut lollipop. He had one lick, and then it was all over. He couldn’t walk, so all-consuming was the lollipop experience. He stopped in his tracks and announced, “But this is too delicious.” Then he took a few more licks and stopped again. “I can eat this?” Afterward, when he told his father about the haircut, he had to whisper the Story of the Delicious Lollipop. Lest the gods hear and take away lollipops forever, I guess.

It was very sweet. It made me happy that I gave him the lollipop. And then came the next 60 days of ceaseless and ear-splitting demands for lollipops.

I tried to convince him that lollipops were magical foodstuffs created only after one’s hair has been successfully shorn, but he didn’t buy it.

After MY last haircut I bought him one, knowing he’d demand it upon my return, and I do enjoy occasionally giving him what his little heart desires. Except this lollipop was not the child-sized version the savvy barber doles out; no, it was a regular-sized one, and as such he never managed to finish it. He took these soft little licks, and after a few hours of watching him do nothing but lick lick lick lick I was shouting such unwittingly filthy phrases as, “Don’t just dab it with your tongue, SUCK IT.” Really! How inappropriate! Periodically he set it down while he ran off to kiss the dog’s lips or something and I would find a fuzz-covered lollipop oozing red dye #6 on my rug. Then I rinsed it for several minutes and sucked it (!) myself in the hopes that I could get the damn thing to go away. But it wouldn’t go away. And then Henry returned to his carpet-pop to find it not there! And then some screaming! Where is his LOLLIPOP! GIVE IT!

After I found it on the rug for the sixth time I threw it out. I tried to convince him that he had finished it. Of course he didn’t believe me. Oh, why did I make him so smart? Why did I take those prenatal vitamins?

He keeps demanding them. He will never forget. Just yesterday, as I pushed Henry home from the playground, the child announced, “I feel like something to lick. Get me a lollipop.”

Me: We only have lollipops after haircuts, remember?

H: Then go get a haircut. And bring me a lollipop.

M: Nope. No haircuts today.

H: Don’t say those words! I don’t like those words!

M: I know. You wish you could have a lollipop.

H: Don’t say that either. I need something to lick. I need it!

M: Wow.

H: GET A HAIRCUT!

p.s.: For various reasons I am closing comments for a while. I will explain later.

I just have to figure out how he printed this.

I found the following tucked away in a corner of Henry's crib. I am so onto him.

Date: April 1, 2005

To: Child 4A0765B-1007@children.com, toddler_unit@children.com

From: Kevin, VP, Toddler Division

Subject: Quarterly Objectives

Happy new year, company members! As you know, our first quarter was a fruitful and productive one. By working together to delay our bedtimes, we acquired over 53,000 extra hours of valuable awake time. That’s 53,000 more hours of running in circles. 53,000 more hours of shaking our heads wildly and arching our backs. 53,000 more hours of the Parents straining to communicate that toothbrushes do not go in the diaper. We have seen the Parents falter and ultimately give way under our consistent efforts, and we are proud.

It should be mentioned that some of our members have made great strides in drastically limiting the variety of foodstuffs they allow to enter their face-holes. We are thinking especially of Child 3A0762C-0908, who now ingests only raisins and lukewarm water sipped from a plastic spork; Child 5B0755F-0528: ketchup on crackers and the occasional mashed grape; and, most breathtakingly, Child 8A0576L-0108: plain dried breadcrumbs licked off a moistened index finger.

For the second quarter of 2005, we’ve strengthened our resolve and shown what a little determination and a lot of screeching can accomplish. And we are ready for the next phase: Operation No-Pants.

Every morning without failing, the Caregivers initiate a dressing procedure that is tiresome at best and scratchy at worst. It distracts us from our viewing of Elmo and limits our access to our smooth smooth skin. Their motives are puzzling: either they are jealous of our smooth smooth skin or else are attempting to break our wills by imposing nonsensical rules and demanding that we comply. But they will not succeed, friends. Because we will resist.

So: no matter how sopping wet or poop-crammed your diaper is, refuse to let Caregiver remove it. Declare that diaper to be your FAVORITE DIAPER. Do not allow any larger beings to lay a finger on it. For motivation, imagine that said diaper is part of your body, like a real tushie over your tushie. If any attempt is made to remove it, you will scream. Remember: the Scream is your friend. Caregivers live in fear of the Scream. If you add to the Scream “No hit! No hit!” they’re sure to back away for fear of the authorities coming after them.

Once a clean diaper is on very little can stop them from dressing you. The soiled diaper is your last and best hope.

Now that you’ve mastered toddler-ese, use it! Declare your opinions at each and every turn, and make sure that they are as vague and baffling as your pronunciation. If Caregiver explains that dressing is a vital step in a traveling-to-playground initiative, screech, “Murfy! TOO MURFY!” Do not explain. Never explain.

But why do we resist, you ask? Why not get dressed and enter the playground, where fun could possibly had? Because, that’s why. Because because because. Because we must take every stand we are able to take. Also! Because Caregiver is deceiving you. There is another, better playground, a Naked Playground, with balloons and ice cream and cake. The soiled diaper will lead the way. This is true, we think.

Onward!

Kevin

Spinning wheel, got to go ‘round.

As the Child hurtles past the 2 1/2 mark and careens toward 3, his mood swings have begun to last for days, if not weeks. So: we’ll have a marathon of intense horribleness, followed by a leisurely stretch of unbridled lovability. It also seems that, the more horrible he is, the more lovable he’ll be later, and vice versa. (Of course, if this were strictly true he’d be escalating in every cycle toward a state of almost inhuman badness or goodness, so I guess it’s not strictly true, but whatever, I’m not a scientist.)

You’d think this could mean that I could ride out the bad period, because I’d know it would soon come to an end. Like during the last Black Period, when we were at the bookstore and, for no reason I could see, he threw a book at my face and screamed one of his charming nonsense words that sounded exactly like “Bitch!” (To all the shocked caregivers surrounding me, some of whom gasped and clutched their bosoms: he wasn’t saying “Bitch,” okay? I mean, if he was going to repeat the cursing he hears in our house, he’d call me an asswipe or a douche. You know! All sophisticated-like!) Or at the playground, when he collapsed into a frothing, shrieking mess because it was time to go home, and I had to haul all 40 pounds of him into the stroller and somehow buckle him in and he kept kicking me in the teeth. You’d think I could laugh these episodes off! Ha, ha! Kids!

Nope, pretty much I can’t.

But now! Oh my god, the sweetness, the cuddling, it's almost too much. Unbidden, he will request a kiss and/or hug. He will come up with statements like “You're my best pal” and “Your hair is cute” (I swear I’m not making this up) or “I’m enjoying this wonderful day with you, Mommy.” During walks he’ll ask me the names of different flowers and then expound upon the wonders of that particular flower. This child, according to him, has an infatuation with tulips that borders on the inappropriate. He is hot for tulips. Today, as I ate my lunch, he stood next to me watching, a huge smile on his face, and as I ate the last bite of my sandwich he said, “That was your last piece!” and I agreed and he said, “And now the Last Piece Monster is coming to kiss you!” and he started kissing my arm.

The Last Piece Monster. Can you stand it?

He’s been this way for a while. It could all change at any minute. No storm clouds will herald the darkening of the Child’s mood. He could go down for his nap with a smile, and then wake up to announce that I am in a world of shit.

He’s napping now.

I’m afraid.