When you have a child who is a Demon Baby, you spend most of every day teetering on the edge of disaster. You grow eyes in the back of your head. Your every nerve is attuned to when the house gets quiet . . . too quiet. You march up and down stairs sending the little guy to time out. Your ears seem to have sonar so you can pick up when he says naughty words. You hear a lot of crashes. A lot of things get broken.
So I try, every day, to find many moments to praise when he tries to be helpful. When he is sweet. Or quiet. Or learns something new. I would far rather notice the GOOD things than only scold the naughty. And at night, we have our whispered prayer time in the dark.
Last night, as I snuggled next to him, I ran my hand across his forehead. I decided to tell him a story. About him.
"You know . . . I used to pray for you. Before you were EVER in my belly, I wanted to have a baby, and I prayed that God would send me you. Exactly you." [Aside . . . all right, so not EXACTLY a wild, always-naked Demon Baby, but yes, exactly him.]
"Yes. You are so loved. And I carried you inside for nine months and couldn't wait to meet you and I have loved you so much for every moment since."
"You should have asked God for TWO of me."
"Yeah.'" [Aside, both my sisters have sets of twins, and in fact, I had PRAYED for twins, but in the Universe's infinite wisdom, there is only ONE Demon Baby.]
"You know, my little angel, I have to tell you that I really think I could only handle ONE of you."
"But two of me would be so much better."
"No. Just one special little boy."
"But if you had two, there would be two of me to love you twice as much."
And at that, I just said, "No one could be that lucky." And I meant it.