Whenever I found out I was having a boy, I admit that I was a little apprehensive. Boys make me very anxious with their hyper, rowdy ways and smelliness and dumb jokes and all the rest that make boys, boys.
I felt very fortunate that my son was not like this. He was super sweet and not on the aggressive side, as some of his playmates were. He was more interested in learning his letters and watching Super Why. I figured if I was going to have a boy, this was definitely the kind to have.
But then he grew up.
He turned five in July and now he is hyper, rowdy, smelly, tells dumb jokes all the livelong day, burps, constantly annoys his sister, and now begs to watch Sponge Bob and Spiderman instead of educational PBS Kids programming.
Don’t get me wrong, he is still super sweet and very sensitive and caring. He tells me he loves me about twenty times a day, no exaggeration. However.
He has gone from being the kid that all the teachers dreamed of having, to being the one who this morning, as I picked him up from Sunday school and was made aware of some “challenges” that he presented by his lack of cooperation, the teacher told me in this kind of ugly tone, “Good luck.” As in “Good luck with that brat of yours. You’ll need it.”
My kid doesn’t do well with changes. He’s in a new class now that also has a completely different format. He refused to participate in the class activities and I’m sure he was a little stinker (but I was a bit miffed at her choice of words). We had a major heart to heart with our little guy and he spent a good deal of time in his room thinking about his actions and I really think it will have an affect on him.
But oh my gosh, he is requiring so much more patience than I feel God has given me.
And while I’m venting, let me add this to the list. Presley (the two year old) will be perfectly content upstairs watching a show or playing with her toys, and I’ll hear him saying (over and over until she reacts)…”Presley, Mommy’s downstairs. Presley, don’t you want to go find your Mommy? Presley, you’re going to be all alone up here. Mommy’s downstairs.” So then of course she finally understands the urgency of the situation and starts crying for me.
This morning I’m trying to get ready for church and I hear, “Presley, do you want a drink? Do you want a drink? Presley, are you thirsty? Okay, go ask Mommy for a drink. Go ask Mommy. Mommy, Presley wants a drink.”
This goes on about fifty times a day and it drives me insane.
One more story…
Last week he was picking on his sister and I got down on his level and told him that he had better quit right now. I said, “I’m going to give you one more shot, and then…” and as I was finishing whatever I was saying he started to completely fall apart, tears streaming down his face, and he says, “I DON’T WANT TO GET ANOTHER SHOT!!!”
Okay, poor choice of words. I’m giving you another chance. Chance, not a shot.
Although if they could come up with a way to make shots another form of discipline…that could maybe work for us…
When Stephanie isn't fake laughing to her son's made up knock-knock jokes, she muses about everything from tampon strings hanging out of swimsuits to her thoughts on Heidi from The Hills at www.mommish.com