This was one of those days that mother says is going to make me the Erma Bombeck of my generation. It starts innocently enough, with a three-year-old person naked as a jaybird declaring he would like two “guh-gun bi-bi,” which I know to be gummy vitamins. His elder brother, laying uncharacteristically on his bed reveals that he feels a little sick. The day progresses into a mishmash of DVD starting, Netflix sorting, dish-washing, laundry-doing, floor-sweeping, baby-holding and tantrum-skirting. I read an article about unschooling which convinces me to let my child lead me through the day, eating as much sugar as he wants and play as many video games and watch whatever DVDs he chooses as much as he wants. That sounds pretty much how today went whether I intended it or not. My eldest, the yang to my yang, attaches himself to my side for the day and whenever I deny some fundamental request, for example, “May I plant a garden?” (It’s December.) or “Can I nail this to my wall?” (It’s a part of our bookshelf…), he flies into hysterics, convinced that I, in fact, don’t love him.
My husband is now in the process of putting them to bed, a feat I suggested he do as soon as we got finished with supper, about 5:45pm. But NOOO, “I want to spend time with them,” he says. I scoff. In their traditional fight to remain awake as long as small humanly possible, they have both decided that they need to go Number 2.