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

Evan-

Your hair and your clothes are always disheveled. You can't seem to ever put them on the right way- your mind isn't there. You run with your feet turned out. You sometimes sound like you have an English accent when you talk, the way you annunciate your words. You are always making maps or charts or games. (The day I took these pictures you were holding a map you made to get to the nearest DQ for some ice cream and took off on your red bike up the hill.) You were very disappointed to be made to turn around and come home again.

Your favorite activities are using your imagination and using your imagination. The other day you asked for green and yellow paint to "paint lemons." I knew we didn't have any lemon trees but I also knew the paint was washable and that boys should be boys, so off you ran with paint. I had no idea you were trying to paint balls of dirt, which proved kind of difficult, what with the dirt sticking to the brush and all... you resorted to dumping the entire thing over the lemons. Jack joined you and you both returned looking like Larry and Junior.

You're a good brother. You make your siblings happy and secure. You are humored by them. They tickle you. Your humor is precious to us. The other day daddy was driving the car and following someone- you said, "we have to catch up with them." Daddy said, "No, Evan. That's not right. We have to mustard them." He said you were quiet for many minutes and the rest of the car-full had moved on to something else, then he heard you start belly-laughing like when you were a baby- "We have to applesauce them!" you yelled with glee, catching on to daddy's humor.

You are sensitive. You tell me a thousand times a day, "mommy, I love you soooo much! I love you more than anything." You also ask me daily, "have I been good today," which makes me sad that you are so hard on yourself. It's tough to discipline you because you are your own worst critic, and at the same time some things require my correction. I hope this is a phase. I hope you are able to stop this self-torment now. I hope you are able to see that I'm not perfect, because I keep telling you it's true and it will be a rude awakening if you don't realize it till the teen years! It's emotionally exhausting... it's harder than temper tantrums or spankings. How many times must I tell you I love you and that you can never do anything to make me stop? Well, however many, rest assured that I- will- tell- you!

I just ordered a sign for your room that says, "I love you to the moon and back," but I want you to know that's not entirely true. I love you to the moon, back, and then some...

You are UNIQUE. You are a JOY. You make my life worthwhile.

Mommy xoxoxoxoxo

Labels: Evan, letter