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9:03 a.m.—We are
already 13 minutes late to leave for the babysitter. Normally, she comes to us (twice a
week, because clearly I did something very, very good in a past life to have
this level of help). But she just took in a new foster child, so I thought it
might be easier for us to go to her for a change. (Did I mention said babysitter is a
saint?) The Toddler refuses to put his
coat on, despite temperatures in the single digits.
I go put my coat on instead.
9:05 a.m.—I am
working to extract Toddler from his brother's Legos, knowing that if he
loses even a single piece of the almost, but not quite, finished Millennium
Falcon, there will be hell to pay. HELL TO PAY, I TELL YOU.
9:06 a.m.—Toddler agrees to let me help him put the coat on, but he only wants to wear
said coat backwards, making him look oddly like Frankenstein. Every time I move to put the proper arm in
the proper sleeve, he does a quick Ninja-like move, resulting in the backwards
9:07 a.m.—We both finally
have our coat situations figured out and are set to walk out the door, when
Toddler asks for his blanket. Yes, blanket. Must not forget blanket on top of second breakfast, snack, lunch,
slippers, gloves, diapers, wipes and extra set of clothing (just in case). This drop-off arrangement is more work than I
9:08 a.m.—Toddler insists on holding special blanket while walking down the stairs to
the car. Independently. Meaning no help from Mom. Alone. All by himself, despite this resulting in certain tripping. Down a flight of stairs. Onto concrete. He stamps his foot and throws his hat off on
the porch. In single digit temperatures. Oy vey. Toddler quickly concedes, feeling the cold air on his ears.
He plants his feet in the middle of the sidewalk, refusing to budge, beloved blanket strewn on the ground beneath him.
9:13 a.m.—We are
both finally in the car, locked and loaded, as I say, but only after Toddler
insisted on climbing into his carseat himself. His seat is still rear-facing, but the boy always reverses his position,
leaving his head where his feet should be. Encouraging him to move, while supporting his burgeoning independence
would be a lot easier, were it May or June and not frigid January. This switching of position did not result in
a tantrum, but only because I heaped on
the big boy praise.
9:20 a.m.—We arrive
at our destination. I see the light at
the end of the tunnel. We exit the car
9:22 a.m.—Toddler insists on carrying his own blanket again. Sure, honey, that's fine. Oops. I spoke too soon. Toddler does
not want to actually use his hands to carry the blanket, but he wants to hold
it independently. Umm.
9:23 a.m.—I come
up with the inspired idea to wrap the blanket around Toddler like a super hero
cape. Genius, Mom. This tactic works for approximately five
steps, as Toddler refuses to clasp the blanket around his neck, which would
require, clearly, using his hands, which he has already refused to do.
9:24 a.m.—Toddler refuses to move. He does not
want to carry his blanket. He does not
want to hold the blanket to him to keep it from falling on the ground. He does not want me to hold the blanket. He plants his feet in the middle of the
sidewalk, refusing to budge, beloved blanket
strewn on the ground beneath him.
9:25 a.m.—Toddler tears commence.
9:26 a.m.—Toddler wails commence.
Strangely, Toddler is now fully cooperating. He is with the program. He is now a company man.
9:27 a.m.—Feeling colder than a popsicle in your parents' 1985 freezer chest, I demand we
move. Now. Pick up the blanket and walk. Now. Or I will carry you. Now. Toddler calls my bluff and lies prostrate on
the ground on top of his beloved blanket. We have entered full tantrum mode. Right there, middle of the sidewalk, single digit January
9:27 a.m.—Letting no time pass, both Toddler and blanket are scooped so as to
prevent having one of the many passing cars contact child protective services. Toddler miraculously capitulates (probably because of extreme temperatures).
Strangely, Toddler is now fully cooperating. He is with the program. He is now
a company man.
9:35 a.m.—We have
reached our destination at the top of three flights of stairs. (Did I mention that our babysitter lives in a
three-story walk-up?) I am now sweating
underneath my many layers of insulation. Toddler is all smiles. Attempts to explain delay ensue, but sitter interrupts saying, "I understand." Bless her.