Cookie D'oh
Heh. Three. You so funny. I mean, I assume you're being satirical when you make your strongly worded demands, punctuating each syllable with a tiny finger jabbed at my face. "I. Want. To. Watch. A. Show. Right. Now." Or at my office holiday party last month: "We. Need. To. Get. Out. Of. Here. Right. Now."
I swear, it happened overnight. Two? LOVELY. Three? Three has me backed into a corner clutching my petticoats as the water rises.
At said office party, I chose from the expansive potluck spread a variety of choices I thought Wombat would enjoy: pasta salad, meatballs (probably vegetarian), some sort of baked cheese thing, and then a cookie for dessert.
He made it clear that he wanted the cookie and nothing else (except maybe another cookie). "Just. The. Cookie. Only."
No, I told him, you have to eat some real food first, and I scooped a modest scoop of something delicious into his mouth and then he GAGGED and...the once-delicious something started coming BACK out of his mouth and obviously (I'll spare you the details) UP from his throat, and possibly beyond.
"Sick kid! Sick kid!" I announced to a roomful of professional contacts as I hoisted him on my hip with the one hand not occupied with a napkin displaying the former contents of my child's insides. MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Substances coming out the in-hole!
I took him into my office and closed the door. "Do you feel okay, sweetie? Are you sick?"
"No, I'm not sick. I want a cookie. Right. Now."
And, damn it, I gave him the cookie. INTERNET, I GAVE HIM THE COOKIE.
This is not something we (Simon and I) do. If we say Wombat's getting a time out, Wombat's getting a time out. If it's too messy for him to eat crackers in the car, we don't give him crackers in the car. (I have little patience for people who genuinely complain about things their kids do that they, by virtue of being the parent, can totally prevent their children from doing, e.g., eating crackers in the car.) We mostly enforce rules in a loving, constructive way (mostly) and it works really well for us, but then, of course, we have a mostly (mostly) compliant kid who doesn't--er, hasn't historically-- defied or deceived.
And then he turned three.
Everything is different now.
All the rules have changed.
What the hell are we doing?
The gagging for a cookie incident (and that's exactly what it was; we was NOT sick) happened just before we were to begin the annual rousing game of office party Holiday Bingo (which has nothing to do with Bingo, but no one will listen to me and call it anything different)--a game that's your basic gift-swap rigamarole of everyone pooling gifts, then selecting one to open from the pile, and then stealing and/or trading for things you actually want. Now, not every kid is right for this game, and I was unsure if Wombat was old enough to (1) understand the concept and then (2) play by the rules without throwing a fit. (One of the kids who's been coming to our holiday parties for the last seven or eight years cried and had a massive meltdown when someone took his gift once. He was NINE.)
The way we play it, in order to choose or swap a gift, you have to roll doubles with a set of dice. Wombat was in charge of rolling the dice for our team (I did not CHEAT like SOME parents, who rolled the dice once for themselves and then once for each of their kids (GREEDY)), and he was really excited whenever he won and got to unwrap a gift. He scored a set of blank notecards (joy!) with envelopes (rapture!) and a disposable film camera (ecstasy!), and just as I was wondering how he'd handle the possibility of someone stealing either of these valuable prizes, he said, "Mom, I think we should leave now."
"Why? Don't you like this game?"
"I don't want anyone to take my stuff, mom. Let's go. Right. Now."
We didn't go (teachable moment), and about two more minutes into the process, he'd figured out that if it took doubles to win, why, he wouldn't toss the dice, no, but set each cube down gently, making sure both had the same number of dots face up. Winning! Also: Cheater cheater pickle eater! (Mmm...pickles...) Can you believe that shit? Three.
I might as well also mention that he punched a girl in the face at daycare--not a flaily toddler slap but a closed-fist punch--and although he cannot tell a lie ("Did you punch Ava in the face?" "Um...yes?"), I wasn't pleased to hear that the reason he punched wasn't accidental or based on a misunderstanding but "because she took a train and I wanted it." Oh, no he di'in't!
I don't know about you, but in our family we teach respect and responsibility. We teach consequences. Unless, apparently, you fake choke-barf in public, in which case HERE IS YOUR COOKIE, CHILD. D'oh.
(Oh, but of course then he does something like this and all is forgiven:
While holding my left hand walking to Playland several weeks ago:
"Mom, your sparkly rings are very pretty!"
"Thank you! Daddy bought them for me."
"He did?!" *stage whispers* "Mom, say 'thank you' to Daddy. Right! Now!"
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