What goes around...

The back story:

I am 3 and sitting at the breakfast table while my pregnant mother hustles around getting ready to get me to the sitter's. She asks, standing at the fridge, if I would like juice or milk with my cereal.

"Um, juice!" I exclaim.

She brings the juice over to the table only to be told (by me) that I changed me mind. "Milk please!"

She goes back and gets the milk, brings it to the table, and I again pipe up, "No, juice!"

So my poor aggravated mother squats down to look me in the eye. "Lauren," she says, struggling to remain calm (and probably also struggling not to choke me), "this is your last chance...do you want juice or milk?"

I look at her, smile and say, "I'll give you a clue..."

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Well, fast forward 27 years and I am standing in the kitchen, trying to get Jack to commit to a drink choice for dinner.

"Jack, do you want juice or milk?" He ignores me.

"JACK!" I yell, "Do you want JUICE or MILK or WHAT!?" (I hate it when he ignores me.)

He finally acknowledges my question and shrugs and says, "OR WHAT!"

Slacker

Me, to Jack, who is army-crawling up the stairs: Can you get up and walk please? This is taking forever.

Jack: My legs are a little bit rusty. I have to go this way.

Happy American Birthday!

Jack had a great time over the 4th of July weekend. We spent a lot of time at the pool where he repeatedly attempted to drown. He will launch himself into the water with no warning, with no fear. It is as if he believes, deep down inside, that his huge bulbous head is a built in flotation device. Needless to say after Dan's hair started visibly falling out I suggested that he let Jack actually go under one time and that might cure him of his dare-devil ways. After plunging in and spluttering to the surface Jack coughed water all over Dan and then said, "I wanna do that again!" Can you say backfire? So this week we purchased a straight-jacket-flotation device which should help Jack learn to swim and keep him above the surface of the water. I can't guarantee he won't still be swallowing half of the pool each visit because the child will NOT keep his mouth shut in the water. He screams, squeals, yells, shouts, talks loudly and laughs the ENTIRE time. He is easily the loudest person at the pool--louder than the lifeguard's whistle, louder than the gang of teenagers trying to to out-bellyflop each other, louder than the group of 11-year old girls playing marco polo. He is still the loudest person in the place EVEN FROM THE BATHROOM where his little voice echos out and floats over the surface of the water: "Look at my poops Daddy!"

Lingo

While watching television this weekend, Jack saw a new cartoon that he really liked and proclaimed, "That is so Bad Ask!" I had to shake my head. I blame Dan.

Jack is learning the basics of cause and effect. For example, how much trouble can he cause before I effectively lose my temper. My parents have drawn a funny parallel to my child-rearing technique: I parent like my father (who, ironically, I can remember intentionally pushing to his limits on a weekly basis) and Dan parents like my Mom (absolutely no B.S.). I feel OK with this because one) no one takes me seriously anyway; two) I learned a lot from both of them; and tres) that's Spanish for "three." I do, however, wonder how much this situation will change when a little girl comes into the picture?

Big Boy

I know that Jack is officially a small man now because of several weird things:

1. He can get a drink from a water fountain all by himself. (It also helps that he is 4' tall at age 3.)
2. If I ask him to remind me of something, he does it. (This might make him smarter than me.)
3. When I give him an ultimatum, he tries to negotiate.
4. He does the fake, I'm-so-cute smile when he wants something.
5. He cries at the sad parts of movies. (F-you Disney.)

It is nice to know that I will soon have a screaming chub-ball to ease me through this transition. I still find it hard to believe that I live with a person as endearing and terrifying as Jack, and that he is about to be TOTALLY ECLIPSED. And who better to do it than a woman!

You know...

Me (screaming): Jack, I'm not telling you again to get over here!
Jack (coming closer): You know...
Me (deep breath): ...what?
Jack (in a patronizing tone): It's not nice to yell at people.

An Open Letter...

I often solve my "problems" by writing letters. Either to the party that I am aggravated with, or to myself (as in, Dear Lauren, stop having kids). This has proven to be very fruitful in the past (with both Roy Rogers and my state legislature) and to encourage Jack to resolve problems with words, I am writing this open letter to him.

Dear Jack,

At (merely) age 3, you have already given me so much experience and knowledge. For example, I already know the difference between battery and assault (I want to be aware of my rights) and how long you are willing to scream before you give up and do things my way (approximately 40 minutes). I know your strengths (eye rolling) and weaknesses (gummy bears) and also that I can survive being sprayed with any bodily fluids that you can produce (although Dinah helped a lot with this one). I can now see the world and note how insignificant most problems are when compared with the daunting task of keeping you alive (despite your siren call of infanticide) and teaching you how to be a nice person. I only hope that a) I succeed, and 2) that if I do, you will help solve some of the world's problems (undoubtedly through video game technology).

Mostly I now know that I want to do this all again, the sleepless nights, the magical baby poop that can escape diapers, and doing 9 times the laundry of a normal human. I am excited to haul around another lump that will eventually share with me the intimate contents of her brain and make me laugh so hard that I have to pull the car over. I am grateful that I got to start off this "experience" with a boy who is sturdy enough to withstand my mistakes and hurt feelings (you get your robot genes from your father) and who might be the most perfect big brother to a sister who hopefully doesn't turn out to be too much like me (or Dan for that matter).

Please don't make me kill you before you go to college.
Love,
Mom-EEE