(DON'T) CUT THE CHEESE

As a mom, I try really hard to do the right thing. I try to be organized. I try to be patient. I try to be thoughtful. I try to anticipate the needs and wants of my very strong willed and curious (two year old) child by being prepared. And I certainly try to handle all situations, where said personality traits can push ones buttons, with grace (and speed).

I TRY.

So, when Baby-Ko accompanied me to a very crowded and not so kid friendly Home Depot, you can imagine how hard I TRIED to explain to him why roaming the aisles (without holding my hand) wasn't really an option. You can also imagine how hard I TRIED to reason with him as we were leaving (literally four and a half minutes after we got there) that riding the fork lift in the parking lot was also not an option. And certainly, you can imagine how hard I TRIED to lure him into my very obvious not-a-contractor-just-a-stressed-out-mom-doing-an-errand-too-close-to-nap-time-SUV-with a "yummy string cheese...???"

"Cheese baby? Do you want cheese?" I said sweetly (waiting for a defiant "No!").

"Yeahhh. I want it," he said relaxing his body and sitting in to the car seat.

"Okay, my love. Here you are." Phew.

Without thinking, I peeled back the wrapper, broke the stick in half and handed him one of the pieces.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He wailed. "I want to bite it!!!" Tears erupted.

"What? Why? Wait, no! Look, you have TWO pieces! Mommy gave you two pieces of cheese!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He flailed. "I don't want two!! I want together!!!"

Are you kidding me??? WTF?! Who doesn't like two pieces of cheese???

"Okay, shhhh! Calm down, Baby-Ko. Give it back to Mommy. I will make you one piece," I said boldly.

With one hand on the steering wheel (did I mention we were already on the road??), and one hand on the cheese(s), I literally started to mush the two ends together to create one "string," if you will. As I handed what I thought was a perfectly welded string/stick of friggin' cheese back to my boy, it fell apart. MORE TEARS.

"Baby! It's not working."

"I want it!!!! I want to bite!!!" He said, chucking half of the cheese back at me (thankfully landing on the console). OMG, kid.

O. M. G.

Doing my best not to lose it (with both tears and laughter), I took a deep breath and dug deep to my inner MacGyver. I mushed, and mushed, and contorted the over-processed (and while we're being honest: NOT organic) cheese back in to one stick and supported it by using the wrapper (like a banana leaf).

With my fingers now smelling like a combo of ass, foot crud, and Wisconsin Cheddar, I delicately handed the golden stick of goodness back to his royal highness.

"Okay, Baby-Ko. One stick. Eat it slowly."

"It's mine," he said sniffling. "My cheese."

"Yes," I said, "It's your cheese...." And for some reason, (and I have no idea why I said it, I just did), under my breath muttered: "Believe me it's yours. My hand smells like vagina."

Without missing a beat he responded: "I want my penis."

This time, I said and tried nothing. Down the road, (a long road, I hope) I think my strong willed and curious child will handle this one on his own... I just hope I'm prepared.....

IT'S JUST THE AGE

Hi, there. You still here? Sorry. I know it's been a while since I've posted. I knoooooow.  I knoooooow.  I should be writing more. You're right. It's true. But trust me. TRUST. ME. I have some pretty good goddamn excuses up my sleeves. And once I'm able to share them all with you, you will forgive me. I prom. 

In the meantime, let's talk about the UFC style bout I had this morning, trying to get Baby-Ko in the car. I have always thought the term "terrible two's" are, well, terrible. I mean, to me, this seems like the best age ever. He looks and sounds like a little munchkin, he's funny (like seriously, kind of witty. I swear), and his vocabulary is blossoming at warp speed. It's a FUN age. It is.... Until it's not. 

Baby-Ko's "new thing" is to try to test his independence. At first it started with grabbing my keys from the table by the front door and saying "Bye, Mommy. I be right back."  Now it's that, PLUS, "let go of me biatch. I'm going down the stairs on my own. Seriously, lady. I mean it." I mean, . I know that's what he's trying to say when he's pushing me away on the staircase and screaming "No! I do it!" at the top of his lungs. Typically, I might actually indulge his hysteria and (while hovering) let him hold on to the railing and go down step by step, sloooowly. But on a day like today, when Mommy's got to get to work, and the walk from the staircase to the car in and of itself could take twelve days if I let him walk on his own, I had no choice but to pick him up and take matters in to my own hands.

Yeaaah. He didn't like that so much.  

"WAAAAALK!!! ME WALLLLK!! DOWWWWN!!!" He screamed.

"I'm sorry, Baby-Ko. We have to go. I have to go to work."

"NO WORK!!!! NOOOOOO!!!!" He wailed as I opened the car door and the WWE Smackdown began. 

For the next ten minutes, I begged, pleaded, laughed, (and oh, did I sigh), trying to get a child with a gift for Kung Fu in to his car seat without breaking his limbs and my earrings.

"Do you want a Paci?"

"NO!!!"

"Do you want a snack?"

"NO!!!"

"Do you want to listen to the Santa Song" (Please don't ask. He loves Raffi's Santa Song.)

"NO, Santa. I want drive!"

"What?"

"Me. Drive. I drive! Mommy Car!" 

"You... Want to drive?"

"Yeaaah, " he finally says calmly.

I take a deep breath and try not to laugh.  "My car? You... You want to drive MY car?"

"Yeahh," he says like 'what's the big deal. hand the fucking keys over and let's do it.'

"Sorry, baby. No. Mommy's driving. You need to sit in your seat and we need to leave."

"NO!!!!" He flails and wails again. 

I take another deep breath and hold up his lunch box, "Want pasta?"

I was desperate (and he didn't want pasta).

Ten minutes (and a major need for a redo of my makeup, which was now on my palms) later, we were on the road.  

It absolutely killed me to hear him sniffling and whimpering the entire way to day care, and certainly didn't make matters any better that he lost his shit again when I handed him over to the day care workers... But what am I to do? I cannot NOT go to work and I most certainly cannot let him drive my car. So what's the solution and when does it end? Is there a magical age that they just stop protesting for the sake of protesting or should I get used to it now because it only gets worse blah blah blah....?

Mommies with older kids, please advise...  Or send me a check for a lot of money so I never have to leave the house again.  That would work too.