I’ve heard the saying, “There’s a special place in Heaven for mothers of little boys,” and it had better be true! My precious little man is full-out into his terrible twos and really putting me through the paces! Despite years of previous teaching experience, this one tiny seed of mine has been able to push me to my limits of patience and restraint like no one else. I often wake up not with a sense of renewed vigor and optimism, but with already beaten down get-through-it-ness. Most days, my first thought is usually, “Coffee. Need coffee.” I didn’t consistently drink coffee before I became a mother. I’d never experienced that level of constant fatigue.

Erma Bombeck says that raising children is like being slowly pecked to death by chickens. True, and if Erma had boys, those chickens likely had small plastic tools and growled like dinosaurs. So in my experience, it’s less like being pecked to death and more like being  hunted and bludgeoned. I say bludgeoned because my son’s latest transgression is hitting; me….his sister…the floor….the time-out chair.

We went through the terrible twos with our daughter and all survived just fine. Her weapon of choice was the scowl and she could really give you the business with her little folded arms and narrowed eyes. At times it was almost comical. The hitting is a different story. It has me at a loss. Previous generations’ answer to parenting dilemmas was to spank, but I fail to see the logic in teaching my child not to hit….by hitting. So we employ the time-out technique.

It follows a fairly simple, but predictable pattern. He hits after being told ‘No’ for something like, say, not leaving the cat alone for once in a row this morning.

BAM! Take that, Mommy!

So to the time-out chair we go. I tell him, “No hitting!” in the sternest voice I can muster. He grins and stands up. I say, “Sit back down, you’re in time-out.” He informs me that he will get out of the chair. Reaching into my teaching bag of tricks, I tell him calmly but firmly that if he does, his time-out will start over. Sadly, this does not usually faze him. It does however, anger him, and he hits again. I tell him that is additional time in the time-out chair. He grins at me again. Round and round we go.

5-10 minutes later, we’re completing a 2 minute time-out. He feels refreshed after his little rest in the chair and runs off to play again, while I am wearily resting my head against the wall. Repeatedly. (Not really, but sometimes I wonder if it would help.) I’m keeping my eyes on winning the war, but these daily battles cost me dearly. I fear that one day soon my artillery will be wiped out and I will be over run.

As I gather myself, my mother walks past and pats me on the arm. “You’re blessed,” she grins. Which puts me in mind of a baby book I saw once relating the Be-attitudes from the Bible to babyhood. I would like to add my own derivations to that list.

Blessed are the mothers of small boys who show more patience than they deserve, for theirs will be a thankful graduation speech.

Blessed are the mothers who won’t let their little boys play with all the rough toys they ask for, for their sons will grow up with their fingers intact.

Blessed are the mothers who teach kindness and respect, for they will raise gentlemen.

Blessed are the mothers who carry their tired little tyrants, despite the day’s previous transgressions, for one day those boys will be their mothers’ greatest advocates.

Blessed are the mothers who tirelessly read the story about steam engines again, and again, and again, for they will find rest….someday.

Blessed are the mothers of little boys, for they just deserve it.

And after every trial of the day, my little man gives me a glimmer of hope as he hugs my neck and sweetly asks for a lullaby with his blankie. Maybe I’ll win the war yet, and maybe the battles are worth it. As for a special place in Heaven, I’m still hopeful. But for now, I’ll settle for a quiet couch and some chocolate during nap time.