Henry has a problem focusing on the task at hand. One minute he's doing what he's told -- whether it's putting on his sock, shelving a book or soaping up his little bod in the bathtub. The next minute, he's trying to hang the sock off his ear, using the book as a makeshift sled to slide across the living room floor, or flinging a sopping wet washcloth across the bathroom.
What are you doing?! Are you listening?! Is it time to de-wax your ears?! Do you need a time out?! Have you been drinking?! What do they feed you at daycare?! Is your behavior a result of my using the "happy pills" during pregnancy?! These are just a few of the questions that run through my mind on an almost hourly basis.
Last night was a classic Henry moment.
I was ushering him into the bathroom in an attempt to direct his focus to the current task at hand -- nightly tooth brushing. He was bouncing and flouncing around, arms and legs flailing, blabbering nonsense in a loud high-pitched voice and giggling at himself in the mirror.
I get the toothbrush. I put the paste on it. I hand it to him. I tell him what I want him to do. Very distinctly. One word: "Brush!" He even more distinctly ignores me, picking up the toothpaste tube and slamming its lid against the countertop. Repeatedly. Rapidly.
"Henry. BRUSH!"
He continues to molest the toothpaste tube and, simultaneously, picks up and slams down the toilet paper roll (that is, of course, not on the dispenser but sitting beside the sink) in a similar fashion.
"Heeennnnrryyy. Put those down and brush!!!"
He discovers that the tube fits perfectly inside the toilet paper roll, so he puts it there and bangs them in unison. A singsong chant accompanies, as he dances atop his wooden step stool.
"Uuughhh! Henry! How many times do I need to tell you? Put those down! The toilet paper is not a toy!"
He froze his movements, shot me a look that claimed ultimate victory, and grinned a little superior Eddie Haskell smirk.
"The toy-let paper is too a toy. It has TOY in it."
I tried. I honestly attempted to maintain my authority, stern demeanor and - yes - dignity. To no avail. I did the one thing no parent is supposed to do in the midst of a battle of wills, disciplining a child.
I started cackling.
Did he ever actually brush his teeth? I truly don't remember.
What are you doing?! Are you listening?! Is it time to de-wax your ears?! Do you need a time out?! Have you been drinking?! What do they feed you at daycare?! Is your behavior a result of my using the "happy pills" during pregnancy?! These are just a few of the questions that run through my mind on an almost hourly basis.
Last night was a classic Henry moment.
I was ushering him into the bathroom in an attempt to direct his focus to the current task at hand -- nightly tooth brushing. He was bouncing and flouncing around, arms and legs flailing, blabbering nonsense in a loud high-pitched voice and giggling at himself in the mirror.
I get the toothbrush. I put the paste on it. I hand it to him. I tell him what I want him to do. Very distinctly. One word: "Brush!" He even more distinctly ignores me, picking up the toothpaste tube and slamming its lid against the countertop. Repeatedly. Rapidly.
"Henry. BRUSH!"
He continues to molest the toothpaste tube and, simultaneously, picks up and slams down the toilet paper roll (that is, of course, not on the dispenser but sitting beside the sink) in a similar fashion.
"Heeennnnrryyy. Put those down and brush!!!"
He discovers that the tube fits perfectly inside the toilet paper roll, so he puts it there and bangs them in unison. A singsong chant accompanies, as he dances atop his wooden step stool.
"Uuughhh! Henry! How many times do I need to tell you? Put those down! The toilet paper is not a toy!"
He froze his movements, shot me a look that claimed ultimate victory, and grinned a little superior Eddie Haskell smirk.
"The toy-let paper is too a toy. It has TOY in it."
I tried. I honestly attempted to maintain my authority, stern demeanor and - yes - dignity. To no avail. I did the one thing no parent is supposed to do in the midst of a battle of wills, disciplining a child.
I started cackling.
Did he ever actually brush his teeth? I truly don't remember.
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