There he sits, my little minion number 3. He is so little he
really is quite cute with ruffled Harry Potter esc hair and his red allergy
nose. At a glance I am capable of thinking to myself how much I love him and
how he adds unending entertainment and adventure to our family. But now is not
the time for such sentiments, now is the time to go into battle mode. I chose
this fight and now I have to see it through damnit! So here goes, another round
with the dreaded 3 year old…
He is planted on the floor next to the shelf that I specifically
told him not to climb, play on, or go near. Small arms crossed tight over his
puffed out chest, a look of absolute determination in those big hazel eyes. His
mouth is stretched tight from the stress of the situation and his head turned
upward in a defiant pose.
I say “Young man. You get away from that shelf Right. Now.”
I can tell his little brain is trying decided whether or not
to break his silence……..the seconds stretch……….
“Listen to me Son. I told you, you may NOT play on that
shelf. You could get hurt.”
For whatever reason this is what elicits a response “I NO
GET HURT!” His little hand is inching towards the shelf “You no call me young man. I call you son!”
As if that sentence within itself isn’t funny enough I have
to channel every ounce of restraint that I possess not to bust out laughing as
his hand gets closer and closer to touching the shelf. And then it happens. The
moment we were both waiting for. The “Finding
Nemo moment”, if you will. The child looks me straight in the eye, touches
the shelf, and waits. Heaven help me! I
have to take a beat and compose myself, not because of the anger I am feeling
but because of the overwhelming urge I have to say “HE TOUCHED THE BUTT!”
After a moment or two I tell him he has until I count to five
to move away from the shelf or he will go to his room
“1”
He puts his little finger to his mouth and furrows his
eyebrows as though he is in deep contemplative debate with himself.
“2”
The wheels are turning in that mastermind brain of his.
“3”
The tension builds.
“4”
Neither of us know what his next move is going to be, but
let’s be honest I really don’t want to have to carry his butt upstairs while he
kicks and screams his fool head off.
…
“Fi-“
He slowly gets down on his hands and knees and at a turtle
like pace begins to crawl away.
“ve”
He gets to his feet as if about to walk away. I go back to
my coupons. After a full minute of being as still as a statue (seriously a
whole minute, I thought I was about to have to change a messy pull-up) he
mumbles just loud enough for me to hear “Call ME young man, uhg!” and takes off
at a run into the kitchen shouting “ASHAWAY HERE!!” (Ashaway, by the way is his
imaginary friend)
I hear the back door open “Hello, so nice see you, let’s
have some coffees.” He and Ashaway (I must assume) stroll into the dining room,
he is talking animatedly. I don’t pay much attention to his words until my ears
perk at “OK, well. Good Bye.” Out of the corner of my eye I see him standing
still with his arm raised towards the door as if to usher someone out.
Trying to be a supportive mom and play along I say “O.K.
Ashaway, nice to see you. Bye, Bye.”
The child stares at me and without missing a beat and with
stone cold anger in his voice says
“No Mommy. YOU leaving. Good bye.”
Needless to say I am still here, INSIDE the house. But as I
sit here and type this I look up and I’ll be damned if he is not at that shelf
again and this time he has ceramic coffee cups!
