The Adventures of Danger-Man

The Adventures of Danger-Man

an unfortunately continuing saga…

We find Danger-Man where we left him last, terrorizing the family cat. Beginning his day as mild-mannered Little-Man, Danger-Man attempts to fool his enemies and his mother into believing that this could be a normal and productive day. After enjoying his morning cartoons and healthy breakfast, Little Man convinces his long-suffering mother, Mommy-Nerves-On-Edge, into taking him and the family dog for a walk. Actually this was his mother’s idea, as it was finally above 40 degrees and there is very little snow on the ground. But I digress. He completes this charade by reverting to his earlier toddler cuteness and referring to the wagon as “Ya-Ya.” His poor mother cannot resist this charming ploy.

It’s a lovely morning, the walk is a great success, and playtime outside ensues. This is great fun until his grandmother calls with news about a violin for his greatest nemesis, “The Sister!” Infuriated by his mother’s insistence that they move their playtime inside for her to take this call, he opens the outside door when no one is looking, thereby letting sister’s indoor-only cat outside. Amazingly enough, when questioned later, he has no recollection of this event.

But that’s a small matter for our hero. A bath for the cat means more playtime for him.

Lunchtime brings spilled juice and another installment of his running diatribe, “good pizza vs. bad pizza.”

Mild-mannered Little-Man takes a nap to prepare himself for the afternoon return of the “The Sister.”  It should be mentioned that The Sister, a.k.a. Distracted Artist Girl, has her own set of difficulties this day. Apparently a pair of robins in the front yard was too mesmerizing to keep her from remembering that lifting the latch on the backyard gate would let the dog loose, resulting in another chase for their poor mother. I feel a pattern developing here.

Upon awakening from his nap, Little-Man begins to cough. Since The Sister is recovering from a sinus infection, his mother is quick to recognize the sound and begins preparations for making chicken noodle soup. While she is distracted, Little-Man quietly slips downstairs and transforms into Danger-Man!

Using his stealth-like retrieval skills, Danger-Man extracts a shadowbox from under the sofa. Then using his trusty toy tool set,  he pulls the back free from the shadowbox and proceeds to explore it’s contents. Mission accomplished, he heads back upstairs to once again race Lightning McQueen against Chick Hicks in his room.

Realizing that the toys from the morning’s outdoor adventures will be in the way of Dad’s imminent return home, his mother goes downstairs to remedy this situation.  She is confronted with an upturned shadowbox and pieces littering the floor around it.  An emergency family meeting is called to ascertain which cherub is responsible for this catastrophe. The Sister walks in, takes one look, and announces, “ITWASN’TME!” Danger-Man also professes innocence. But, as The Sister points out, since neither cat nor dog can do it, it has to be him. Danger-Man is unaffected by this ray of logic and continues grinning sweetly at his mother.

Deciding that fixing the problem is the more immediate task, his mother tables the ‘who done it’ issue for a later time. She then asks that they help her look for any additional pieces on the floor around them. Danger-Man immediately puts up his Mommy Request Force-Field and continues his quest to see how many times he can circle the coffee table. When a rather irritated request breaks through his defenses, Danger-Man calmly replies that he should not look for the missing pieces, as he is not a girl.

Faster than a mood swing, mild-mannered mommy transforms into Feminist-Chic! Righter of all wrongs against woman-kind, especially when uttered by her own seeds! Feminist-Chic informs Danger-Man that he is lucky she does not believe in spanking and should take himself to time-out right away!!

A few minutes later, all the pieces are accounted for, crisis is averted, and mild-mannered Little-Man has retired his Danger-Man suit for the day.  His mother wonders, as she shakily sips her tea to soothe her jangled nerves, what adventures tomorrow will bring. Perhaps tomorrow will be the long dreamed about day of an outing without a tantrum, or a day of unobstructed cooperation. She dreamily drifts back to his sweet request for extra snuggles at bedtime, but is jolted back to reality when she remembers…tomorrow is dinosaur day at story-time.

God help us.

*note* – This was written a few years ago, when Danger-Man was younger, and smaller, but no less precocious.  I felt it necessary to introduce this story now to lay the groundwork for future, more updated Danger-Man sagas.

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.

As parents, we’re expected to have all the answers. Or, at least in our children’s eyes, appear to have all the answers. I have never claimed to be some sort of parental super-genius, but I’d like to think that a decade into this job, I’ve got a pretty good handle on things. Changing diapers, swaddling, reading stories, knowing which toys are developmentally appropriate and best suited for each stage, are things that no longer give me anxiety. But then, lest I feel too complacent or confident, something will inevitably happen that makes me stop in my tracks, and go “WHAT?!….Why??” There are apparently still many things that I don’t understand.

For example, I don’t understand why my daughter feels the need to answer my questions as though I have the same I.Q. as the dog. I’m not the one who forgot to turn in homework, or the library book and pay the overdue fine! But when asked about these things, she cannot stand my line of questioning, or comprehend why I would require such information. So she tries to explain it to me as slowly and condescendingly as possible. (Please read while rolling your eyes, and imagine that you’re using the kind of truncated speech that you would need to explain calculus to the toaster.)  “Mom. I couldn’t turn. it. in. No one. was. there. I. was too. busy!”

I also don’t understand the obsessive love my baby has for nightlights. I have to go around and unplug every one within his reach and put it up high on a shelf…every. single. day. (Huh, maybe that’s where my daughter gets that from?) It doesn’t matter that he has multiple rooms full of bright, colorful, developmentally-appropriate and safe toys. No no, he wants the nightlights. He cannot resist their siren song. Had I known this ahead of time, I wouldn’t have spent years carefully cultivating what it seems now will become our museum of awesome toys. And would have instead spent my time and money buying mismatched socks, nightlights and TV remotes…the things he actually wants.

I don’t understand why my older son seems physically incapable of simply walking through a room without some sort of jump, dance, ninja kick or general spaz-out in the process. I don’t know what gets hold of him, and I’ve spent a good deal of time looking for some sort of “excitement force-field” in the middle of all our rooms that must be shocking him, but which the rest of us are immune to. It doesn’t appear to exist. And thus, my confusion continues. On an almost daily basis, I find myself staring, shaking my head in utter disbelief at something he’s done. He looks genuinely surprised when I get irritated with him spinning his head into the carpet and flailing his feet.

Me: “I asked if you could count to 100 by 5’s. Why are you flopping around like a fish?!”

Little Man: “I don’t know.”

Maybe it’s not just me.