Dear Jack- I love you, but I am SO TIRED of picking poop out of crib spindles with Clorox wipes and washing your sheets twice a day in Oxi-clean.  The spankings and time-outs haven't worked.  You take that diaper off as fast as I can say trouble.  You are as impulsive as a... a... well, as your father. 

Someone suggested putting your sleepers on backwards but none of them are button-ups. 

Someone else suggested masking tape, and another, positive reinforcement with candy.  Seeing as how we don't have any candy around today, nor a car to go get some (one's in the shop,) and seeing as how things hit an all time high on the mess factor around here, I opted for the masking tape just last nap time. 

By the time I was finished winding it around your middle, you were staring at me with a quizzical expression.  It looked like I was putting you into your crib in a chastity belt. Or a Sumo wrestling diaper. 

Whatever it takes, I shrugged, and stood back to admire my work.

Try to take that diaper off now, buddy boy, I said, and you smiled as if you were up for the challenge.

Weh-heh-hellll........................ naptime is long over and GUESS- WHO- WON, my friend?! I did!  That's who!

I cannot TELL YOU the excitement, the adrenaline that ran through my veins when I found you shirtless, yes, but still all taped up after naptime and- GASP- with DRY sheets.  I praised you, too, (as if you hadn't tried to rip the thing off with your all of 8 teeth) but left it on by choice, gave you a handful of animal crackers to gnaw on while I went to work cutting the thang off with scissors. 

I told myself not to get too excited.  This wouldn't, in fact, solve all of the destructive behaviors going on around here.  Like the one that occurred just yesterday afternoon when you brought me the small silver decorative box with velvet inlay from our sideboard in the dining room. 

Poop, you said. 

I opened the box.  Yesss.  Poop, indeed.  Sitting on dark blue velvet like a delicacy or rare jewel.  However did that get in there and let me see your hands...

Maybe I should just tape a training pot to your tush. 

Well, then I might as well glue a bib to your chest, and the dog food to dog food bowl, and the Doritios to the top shelf of the pantry while I'm at it.  That would minimize the messes by about a third?  Maybe?

But how oh how shall I keep your father from leaving out his half-full  Dr. Pepper cans?  Maybe we could just get something that would feed it to him intravenously, like an IV bag. 

I better go Google that...

Sleep Tight, my Angel- (and I know you will because you're swaddled in masking tape)-

Mommy  

Labels: boys will be boys, dumbhead parenting, here comes trouble, Jack, Katie, letter, milestones, phases, pics