This weekend, untitledson is going to grandma’s. Not my mother, mind you. Oh hell no. He’s going to stay with Mary Poppins herself — untitledhusband’s mother. I say this without the slightest touch of sarcasm. I have no doubt that for untitledson, this weekend will be filled with more belly kisses, ice cream and long glorious rides on Papa’s lawn tractor than he can shake his Spaghettio-stained fist at. I reluctantly entered this agreement knowing he may never want to return.
While I may not be worried about untitledson, I am concerned about the safety and well-being of his grandparents. Sure, grandma has raised four children. But I’m not confident that she is prepared for Tasmanian Toddler.
I thought I’d sit down and write out an abridged owner’s manual for untitledson, in case things turned south. A few highlights:
1. If boy’s head starts spinning and pea soup speweth from his mouth, stay in control. Warn him that he will lose all Hot Wheels privileges for the day if he does not exorcise himself by the count of three. (Here is where I would like to officially bless the inventor of Hot Wheels, wherever he or she may be. For parents who may have fallen to the tyrannical rule of a two-year old despot, Hot Wheels has proven to be a formidable negotiating tool.)
2. Under no circumstances do you read him more than three books at bed time. This will be a signal that he has once and for all conquered the last bastion of parental control. You will then be doomed to read “Olivia” and that dreaded truck book until your ears bleed.
3. If untitledson refuses to enter the house for whatever reason, threaten to shut the garage door. Maybe even press the button a few times, so it jolts up and down a bit. It’s the one sure way to smoke him out, for he’s hella scared of garage doors.
4. Never, ever leave him in control of the Teddy Grahams box. He will down that shit quicker than you can say colon blow.
Above all else, don’t forget to give him his Snoopy and kiss all 10 toes before tucking him in. Somewhere, his momma is wondering how she’ll get through the weekend without waking up to find that her son had once again commandoed his way into the master bed, and that due to his odd sleeping habits, she is wearing what amounts to a human hat.
A weekend without kid(s)—I can only imagine the bliss! You will miss him the first 10 minutes he is gone then about 2 hours before he comes home you will be so excited to see him…then 2 hours after he is back you will wish you had enjoyed your “time off” more–kick back and enjoy–the teen years are coming and you will wish you were like a hamster and eaten your young at birth. Not really–well, maybe
Chris
I always liked the part when you would take the kid over to the grandparents and say somehing like, “And here are her bott-” only to be cut off mid-sentence by, “Don’t you THINK we can figure it OUT? We raised YOU, didn’t we? Just leave everything and we’ll be just FINE,” which is followed by an indignant huff and a sweeping lift of baby into arms of grandparent. “And de baby-waby knows gwamma can take care all the silly-willy your mommy worries so much about.”
And mommy is effectively dismissed.
The next chapter to said story is invariably the admonishment at pick up time. “Do you REALIZE that you only left us one NIPPLE for her bottles and we had to continually WASH it all WEEKEND?”
And now for the best part.
I triumphantly pick up the untouched stack of bottle lids, which are precisely where I left them on the kitchen counter mid-sentence two days before. I snap it apart to reveal that this is not some mysterious purple plastic tube, but a series of sterilized caps and nipples, each one at the ready for Baby Dumplin’s darling bee-stung lips.
I offer up one of the brown rubber nubs in wordless victory for all to see.
I’m not sure if I could sleep soundly without my equivalent of a human hat. In my case it is a hybrid mutant leach like creature fused with a hot water bottle usually rooted deep under my back with the ocassional thumb jabbing my eyeball. I still check if he is breathing several times a night. Hand on his chest, feel movement, able to go back to sleep.
You need to have MULTIPLE nipples for bottles? Jeez.
Our D-I-L called and said “Grammy, I know you’re going to love this story!” Seems she was tucking our 7 yr. old grandson into bed (after a 2 wk. visit w/us) and he told her they weren’t as much fun as Bompie and Grammy. I told her to feed him chocolate and play a few hands of Indian poker with him and he would love them again.
Just started reading you and feel that we must be twins separated at birth. But not in a weird Internet-stalker way. No, not like that. Seriously, though, we do have the same mother; although my inlaws, with the grandchild-loving…um, not so much. That is in the sole care of my stepmom and dad…much to my mother’s chagrin and my delight.
Whenever I left instructions with my mother about babies’/toddlers’ feeding times, preferences, sleep habits etc. There was always: “Yeah, right, like I’m going to follow my daughter’s screwed up version… Grandma knows better, doesn’t she, little baby? Yes, she does”. The battle was on. I’d pick them up and my mom would inform me “Oh, that little game you used to play before she went to sleep… uh-uh, no good, we now do this new thing, which she loves”. Thankfully, I had a more disciplined mom-in-law, she listened to me attentively, stuck to my rules (at least I think so) and never gave me any back talk. Guess which one got to see more of the kids?