Last night the Hubs and I had a quality conversation about parenting. If we were good and remembered to attend the Love and Logic class at NFC, we would have had more than one good conversation about parenting this week – but hey: one’s better than none, jes?

The conversation came about as we were sitting on occupying the sofa (there’s no real sitting in this household — unless it’s on the pot, but that’s also stifled by a child flinging items such as Robatussin and non-drowsy/non-Meth-making/non-fun decongestants out of the childproofed drawers – stinky skinny arms that can scrunch in that inch of non-protected space) attempting to watch the third/sixth Star Wars which I picked up from the library (yay for “free” rentals and placing online holds – woot!). Actually, Hubby was watching, I was trying to read my book for book club (teeny tiny attention span requires multitasking at all times. I dream about what needs to be organized sometimes. Yes, you may contribute to my therapy fund), and JJ was using me as a human version of Safari Sam’s – slide/jungle gym/trampoline/ball pit. I was actually finally finding some redeeming qualities of the book (the last, oh, I don’t know, BILLION reads have been downers, to which my beloved book club buddies say, “But it’s so about real life!” Why do I read? To ESCAPE from REAL LIFE, PEOPLE! Sheesh), but after getting whacked in the face with enormous toddler feet for the umpteenth time, I had it. So had Hubby, who promptly (i.e. a tad on the angry/frustrated side . . . just a tad) got JJ’s diaper changed, pjs on, and crib occupied with a rather perturbed resident (But the ball pit! I was bodyslamming in the ball pit!).
When Hubby came downstairs, he apologized. Having seen enough sitcoms, I knew the proper wifely response.

“What for?”

A bit of silence. And then he said he was frustrated with JJ because he whangs on me so much. He’s a very gregarious child who has not reached that point of realizing Mama and JJ are actually NOT the same person (shocking, I know: he’s still very advanced, or as Grandaddy repeats constantly in his Southern drawl, a “good boyh”). So when JJ whomps on me, which is not a beating or hitting but more of a wrestling/rolling/romper room type thing, he’s not thinking of personal space or being respectful, but of getting out some of that BOUNDLESS energy using an extension of himself.

At the end of the day, after having engaged with him for quite some time, I’m pooped and don’t have the energy to come up with ways for him to channel that tizzy nature that don’t cause my intestines to be bruised. So I lay there, he wangs, and Hubby gets frustrated that His Bride isn’t going to make it until the age of 30 (or at least will look like those red-taped bananas that you can buy at the grocery store that are only good for banana bread – which I made some today: smells yummy). But, because the Hubby is at work all day when I’m intentional about playing with the GoGo Gadget kid, he doesn’t know the tips or tricks I do, such as playing

• whisk the bowl with invisible cookie dough in it while Mama does the real thing
• throw the ball against the wall which “scares” Mama and makes me laugh
• terrorize the cat by touching, laying, or sitting on him
• stare out the window at the PUP-EEE and laugh while the PUP-EEE catches a ball
• lay on the floor and talk about Homeland taking over CTU

Okay, so my games probably won’t win any mind-stimulating awards, but hey: it’s better that Purple Crack Dinosaur. At any rate, the Hubby probably has this idea that all we do is play on the computer and watch tv and lay around muttering, “Seriously? Couldn’t we read a book with a recipe in it? C’mon, people!” So he said he’d work on creating a bag o’tricks, I’ll work on asserting personal space (“No touching!“), and JJ will work on getting into my desk to get a pack of gum to unwrap every piece and to LICK them (Dad, I know you taught him that somehow).

Hubby uttered, “If we ever decide to have a next one, I hope it’s boring.” Actually, he said he wanted an Uncle Bubba, but boring baby is what he really meant.  I told him that a) would never ever happen – our DNA is doomed towards creating the embodiment of nuclear energy, and 2) there’s NO WAY I would let him take care of the boring child after being at work all day with me at home with the urchins. NO WAY. No way.

I could totally go for another JJ: I’d be exhausted and twitchy, but I know how to handle him. What I *couldn’t* handle (i.e. what I’m doomed towards, i.e. why procreation may be done for this household) is having an Energetic Extrovert child and then an Emotional Introvert child. What if the second one hated going on daily outings? Freaked out around people? DIDN’T LIKE RAY’S FRUITLAND?!!

Yes, it’s silly to fear something that hasn’t happened. But I’ve found that a lot of parenting is like that: so many “what if”s that can throw me into a tizzy. Happily, I suppose, I haven’t had too much time to think of that – someone’s been throwing Swedish fish all over the floor . . . one handful at a time.

JJ Jawings, Mama Musings