Yes. He is flexing his muscles.
Temporary tattoo of barbed wire courtesy of 10-year-old sister.
He wanted his penis tattooed. This was the compromise.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Naked Strike's New Twist
Managements talks with Demon Baby have deteriorated further.
Went to my pastor-friend's house last night for dinner. Demon Baby stripped out of his shirt, complaining about a "tag"--which did not exist.
"But it's itchy."
"It can't be. This shirt has no tag."
Multiple times I had to stop him from stripping out of the rest of his clothes, but he did remain shirtless.
But the new twist?
He now is giving up bathing.
"I want to see how stinky I can get."
Day 1. Not bad.
Day 2. Still not bad.
Day 3. A little ripe.
Day 4. Noxious. So I get to wrestle Demon Baby into the bathtub today. I just can't stand the stench. AND, I am equally confident that he wouldn't care HOW long he went without a bath.
I may have to bring in labor scabs. Some fake kid to take his place just so I can have a moment's peace.
Went to my pastor-friend's house last night for dinner. Demon Baby stripped out of his shirt, complaining about a "tag"--which did not exist.
"But it's itchy."
"It can't be. This shirt has no tag."
Multiple times I had to stop him from stripping out of the rest of his clothes, but he did remain shirtless.
But the new twist?
He now is giving up bathing.
"I want to see how stinky I can get."
Day 1. Not bad.
Day 2. Still not bad.
Day 3. A little ripe.
Day 4. Noxious. So I get to wrestle Demon Baby into the bathtub today. I just can't stand the stench. AND, I am equally confident that he wouldn't care HOW long he went without a bath.
I may have to bring in labor scabs. Some fake kid to take his place just so I can have a moment's peace.
Friday, August 29, 2008
All Things Are Better Naked
The impasse between Management and Demon Baby continues.
As I write, he is, of course, stark naked. When I ask him if he is EVER going to put on clothes, he tells me no. Not maybe. Not someday. NO.
"Life is better naked."
For the record, these are the things he appears to think are better naked:
eating macaroni
playing with the dogs
going out to the mailbox to check for mail
sleeping
talking on the phone with Grandma
waving to the mailman
answering the door for the Pizza Hut man
greeting his babysitter yesterday
As you can imagine, I pay my babysitters REALLY well ($50 for four hours of work plus takeout). Just as I pay my weekly housekeeper above the going rate so she doesn't quit in despair.
Babysitter arrived. Naked Demon Baby greeted him. For the record, the babysitter arrived early. I had scheduled a 20-minute "wrestle some clothes on Demon Baby" session so the babysitter wouldn't think I was clinically insane allowing my child to be nude all the time. But with babysitter's early arrival, he (guy babysitter) was greeted by full frontal.
"Sorry," I apologized.
I was able to convince Demon Baby that he and babysitter would have LOADS more fun if Demon Baby at least wore dinosaur underpants.
"Why?"
"'Cause it's like a secret club. All the guys wear dinosaur underwear. They just don't advertise it like you do. But trust me on this one."
So I got him in underwear.
He fell asleep on the couch at 8:00 just as I got home. I put him to bed. The minute his head hit the pillow--IN HIS SLEEP--he kicked his legs and removed his underwear, rolled over and went on to Naked Dreams.
Management is close to giving up.
But I bet you all are jealous about the dinosaur underwear.
As I write, he is, of course, stark naked. When I ask him if he is EVER going to put on clothes, he tells me no. Not maybe. Not someday. NO.
"Life is better naked."
For the record, these are the things he appears to think are better naked:
eating macaroni
playing with the dogs
going out to the mailbox to check for mail
sleeping
talking on the phone with Grandma
waving to the mailman
answering the door for the Pizza Hut man
greeting his babysitter yesterday
As you can imagine, I pay my babysitters REALLY well ($50 for four hours of work plus takeout). Just as I pay my weekly housekeeper above the going rate so she doesn't quit in despair.
Babysitter arrived. Naked Demon Baby greeted him. For the record, the babysitter arrived early. I had scheduled a 20-minute "wrestle some clothes on Demon Baby" session so the babysitter wouldn't think I was clinically insane allowing my child to be nude all the time. But with babysitter's early arrival, he (guy babysitter) was greeted by full frontal.
"Sorry," I apologized.
I was able to convince Demon Baby that he and babysitter would have LOADS more fun if Demon Baby at least wore dinosaur underpants.
"Why?"
"'Cause it's like a secret club. All the guys wear dinosaur underwear. They just don't advertise it like you do. But trust me on this one."
So I got him in underwear.
He fell asleep on the couch at 8:00 just as I got home. I put him to bed. The minute his head hit the pillow--IN HIS SLEEP--he kicked his legs and removed his underwear, rolled over and went on to Naked Dreams.
Management is close to giving up.
But I bet you all are jealous about the dinosaur underwear.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Naked Strike, Week II
Negotiations between Management and Demon Baby have broken down.
Total nakedness enters Week 2.
We went to the planetarium. I told him planetarium outings required clothes. He consented. Briefly. We started walking inside.
"I need to take off my shoes and socks."
"Why?"
"They itch me."
"You have to wear shoes and socks or you can't see the planets and stars inside."
Huffing his displeasure, he followed me inside.
"I have to go to the bathroom."
I led him to the ladies room. He chose a stall. "I'm locking it so you don't look at me while I pee."
"I've seen it all before, Demon Baby."
"Still . . . KEEP OUT."
I could see him shedding clothes underneath the stall door.
"Demon Baby, open this bathroom stall right now."
"NO!"
He emerged, as you can imagine, naked. BUT wearing his shoes and socks.
"You cannot tour the planetarium naked. We'll be kicked out. I may appreciate your Naked Strike, but the Planetarium Union will not accept this."
"Why?"
"Because, generally, people wear clothes in public."
"Why?"
"Because."
"Well, that's stupid."
"Don't say stupid, that's potty mouth."
"I love potty mouth."
"I know. Get dressed."
Huffing again. "Fine. But I'm not wearing underwear."
"Commando it is. Just put on CLOTHES."
He did. As soon as we got home, talks further broke down.
Naked Strike continues.
Total nakedness enters Week 2.
We went to the planetarium. I told him planetarium outings required clothes. He consented. Briefly. We started walking inside.
"I need to take off my shoes and socks."
"Why?"
"They itch me."
"You have to wear shoes and socks or you can't see the planets and stars inside."
Huffing his displeasure, he followed me inside.
"I have to go to the bathroom."
I led him to the ladies room. He chose a stall. "I'm locking it so you don't look at me while I pee."
"I've seen it all before, Demon Baby."
"Still . . . KEEP OUT."
I could see him shedding clothes underneath the stall door.
"Demon Baby, open this bathroom stall right now."
"NO!"
He emerged, as you can imagine, naked. BUT wearing his shoes and socks.
"You cannot tour the planetarium naked. We'll be kicked out. I may appreciate your Naked Strike, but the Planetarium Union will not accept this."
"Why?"
"Because, generally, people wear clothes in public."
"Why?"
"Because."
"Well, that's stupid."
"Don't say stupid, that's potty mouth."
"I love potty mouth."
"I know. Get dressed."
Huffing again. "Fine. But I'm not wearing underwear."
"Commando it is. Just put on CLOTHES."
He did. As soon as we got home, talks further broke down.
Naked Strike continues.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Frat Boy
I made a startling discovery this week.
After a week in which Demon Baby decided to spend it entirely naked (every time we dressed him, he ran off and stripped . . . so unless we were duct-taping clothes to his body, I decided he would just spend it as a nudist and maybe grow bored of the whole idea) . . . Demon Baby has THREE obsessions.
1. Nudity.
2. Breasts--particularly large ones.
3. Guitar Hero.
My three-year-old son . . . is a FRAT BOY.
I am afraid. I am VERY afraid.
After a week in which Demon Baby decided to spend it entirely naked (every time we dressed him, he ran off and stripped . . . so unless we were duct-taping clothes to his body, I decided he would just spend it as a nudist and maybe grow bored of the whole idea) . . . Demon Baby has THREE obsessions.
1. Nudity.
2. Breasts--particularly large ones.
3. Guitar Hero.
My three-year-old son . . . is a FRAT BOY.
I am afraid. I am VERY afraid.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Lost in Translation
Demon Baby is very clever. Lately, if he finds that his older brother and sisters are not letting him have his way, he comes into my office and says, "Older Brother won't let me play with his Nintendo." Or "Older Sister won't let me eat candy for breakfast." To which I reply, "You don't play nice with Older Brother's things, so he is justified in that," or "Because candy isn't breakfast food."
He nods. Then he toddles off, and I can hear him go to them, "SHE SAID that if you don't let me play Nintendo she is going to chop your head off." (This is Demon Baby after all.) Or "SHE SAID to let me have candy and ice pops for breakfast and if you don't, she will put you in time-out and then put you on a space ship and send you to outer space." (One, Oldest Sister is 18; two, I don't have those kind of connections at NASA or I already would have sent Demon Baby into orbit.)
Something is getting lost in the translation.
He nods. Then he toddles off, and I can hear him go to them, "SHE SAID that if you don't let me play Nintendo she is going to chop your head off." (This is Demon Baby after all.) Or "SHE SAID to let me have candy and ice pops for breakfast and if you don't, she will put you in time-out and then put you on a space ship and send you to outer space." (One, Oldest Sister is 18; two, I don't have those kind of connections at NASA or I already would have sent Demon Baby into orbit.)
Something is getting lost in the translation.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Betty Friedan and Me
Today, every time I sat my writer's ass down in my writer's chair to work, Demon Baby beckoned me. What did he need? The list was endless:
Pull up my pants
Get me orange juice
Make me noodles
You didn't make them right, make 'em again
Wipe my butt
Pretend I am a dog and pet me in my doghouse
Wipe my butt (this is my official job since no one else in the house is interested in toilet training)
More juice
Play "boat and pirate"
Dance
Change your iPod to the Clash
Kiss me
No, don't kiss me, because you have cooties and are gross
Get me cheese (the cheese fetish this kid has is alarming)
You get the idea.
And I am reminded of Betty Friedan:
"It is urgent,” she said, “to understand how the very condition of being a housewife can create a sense of emptiness, non-existence, nothingness in women. There are aspects of the housewife role that make it almost impossible for a woman of adult intelligence to retain a sense of human identity, the firm core of self or ‘I’ without which a human being, man or woman, is not truly alive. For women of ability, in America today, I am convinced there is something about the housewife state itself that is dangerous.”
Now, I am not--narrowly speaking--a housewife. In fact, in some ways, I am something even more exhausting. I am a full-time writer, supporting my family as I work from home, with no child care help and very little support, with four children, doing all those empty chores . . . while trying to preserve a sense of me.
And into this world Demon Baby was born.
It is difficult, even with this blog, to convey the very idea that not FIVE minutes can go by without something crashing, without him needing ME. And I cannot tell you how often I hear Betty Friedan whispering in my ear. Mocking me, maybe. "Your IQ? Twenty books published? A butt wiper?"
So it has been that Buddhism and service has been my salvation. The very idea that the ACT of love, of sacrifice, is a religious or spiritual ritual in and of itself.
I do it imperfectly. I really do. But I strive to see this altar of my Demon Baby as something beautiful. The idea that I was here when he took his first breath in this world. And one day, perhaps, he will be by my bedside as I take my last, but somehow, the cosmic umbilical cord remains. He is mine, and I am his, and we are forever linked.
Don't get me wrong . . . Freidan spoke of something very real. She spoke of the mind-numbing reality of running a household.
But I guess, today, as I watch my Demon Baby sleep . . . I see something more, something different.
I see love.
Pull up my pants
Get me orange juice
Make me noodles
You didn't make them right, make 'em again
Wipe my butt
Pretend I am a dog and pet me in my doghouse
Wipe my butt (this is my official job since no one else in the house is interested in toilet training)
More juice
Play "boat and pirate"
Dance
Change your iPod to the Clash
Kiss me
No, don't kiss me, because you have cooties and are gross
Get me cheese (the cheese fetish this kid has is alarming)
You get the idea.
And I am reminded of Betty Friedan:
"It is urgent,” she said, “to understand how the very condition of being a housewife can create a sense of emptiness, non-existence, nothingness in women. There are aspects of the housewife role that make it almost impossible for a woman of adult intelligence to retain a sense of human identity, the firm core of self or ‘I’ without which a human being, man or woman, is not truly alive. For women of ability, in America today, I am convinced there is something about the housewife state itself that is dangerous.”
Now, I am not--narrowly speaking--a housewife. In fact, in some ways, I am something even more exhausting. I am a full-time writer, supporting my family as I work from home, with no child care help and very little support, with four children, doing all those empty chores . . . while trying to preserve a sense of me.
And into this world Demon Baby was born.
It is difficult, even with this blog, to convey the very idea that not FIVE minutes can go by without something crashing, without him needing ME. And I cannot tell you how often I hear Betty Friedan whispering in my ear. Mocking me, maybe. "Your IQ? Twenty books published? A butt wiper?"
So it has been that Buddhism and service has been my salvation. The very idea that the ACT of love, of sacrifice, is a religious or spiritual ritual in and of itself.
I do it imperfectly. I really do. But I strive to see this altar of my Demon Baby as something beautiful. The idea that I was here when he took his first breath in this world. And one day, perhaps, he will be by my bedside as I take my last, but somehow, the cosmic umbilical cord remains. He is mine, and I am his, and we are forever linked.
Don't get me wrong . . . Freidan spoke of something very real. She spoke of the mind-numbing reality of running a household.
But I guess, today, as I watch my Demon Baby sleep . . . I see something more, something different.
I see love.
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