The other day I picked JJ up from the nursery.  As soon as I rounded the corner, the sitter manning the door/baby gate exclaimed in a voice usually reserved for Santa Claus or Oprah, “Oh, Yea!  JJ’s mom is here!!!”  I checked:  nope, I didn’t come bearing stocking stuffers or cars – apparently sometimes the removal of an object/toddler is more of a present than giving something.
I had chatted with another nursery worker earlier, asking if things were alright.  “Oh, yes:  JJ does fine.  I just always tell them, ‘He throws, climbs, and escapes – be forewarned.’”  Wow:  just the thing you want to hear about your kid, right?

I remember the throwers in my classes when I was younger:  they were scary – could nail you right between the eyes if you pissed them off, and sometimes you didn’t have to do anything:  they’d bean you just because they were bored.  Being less-athletically inclined (I play MarioKart and volleyball:  I deflect.  This whole throwing/catching thing is way overrated), I tended to stay away from the throwers.

Until now. because it seems that God enabled me to breed one, particularly one who is starting his career out before he hits school.   “Oh,” I tried to cheerfully recover.  “Well, he doesn’t seem to throw so much at home.”  But I couldn’t really finish my conversation because he had taken off around the corner and down the hall and was heading up the stairs to see I’m sure if he could chuck a hymnal up to the balcony and nail the organ:  I have no doubt that he could.
I’m somewhat in a quandry as to what to do.  Of course, all the parenting books agree and disagree at the same time.  They are in agreement that throwing is bad when it hurts folks.  But some encourage throwing at appropriate times:  because, you know, a toddler reasons like that.  Some say it’s really important to get the “no throwing” thing into their head, being very firm (i.e. mean) and authoritative (i.e. oppressive), and I can just hear the amount of therapy bills for adult JJ rising in my head.  Others say you dare not squelch a child’s spirit lest their spirit die and they become a shell of a person, and then I hear the medical bills (mostly from other kids) rising in my head from all the injuries my free-throwing child might inflict.

I just hate those labels.  I remember being labeled:  smart (not pretty), emotional (hysterical), sensitive (pansy), sturdy (chubby), verbal (loud), and noxious (obnoxious – one of my first sentences:  “I not noxious!”  Can’t imagine where a toddler learned THAT word, momanddad ).  I HATE those labels.  When I heard that JJ is the “throwing climbing escapee”, I wanted to add in the things that weren’t listed:

• sleeps through the night and comes stumbling to find me in the morning, waving his arms and saying “hihihihi”
• loves to find his bellybutton and poke it, just to make sure he didn’t lose it
• greets the cart collector at Freddies every time we see him, making them both smile (well, the guy makes odd grunting noises, but I think he’s happy)
• loves *anything* to do with KEEKEES!!!! and proceeds to meow anytime we go down the animal food isle at the store
• runs full strength into the arms of anyone I tell him to “go get”
• blows kisses on command, even to his toothbrush when it’s time for the toothbrush to go night night (sometimes the toothbrush gets quite a workout)
• does the Tom Brokaw wiggle dance when really excited
• likes to help unload the dishwasher, bring bags in from the car, put bags into the closet, and bring the newspaper in (which includes taking it out of the plastic sack, throwing the sack away, and laying the paper out on Hubby’s seat for him to read at lunch)
• watches Dr. 90210 with me and doesn’t complain (I know:  it’s a horrible show.  But now he’ll know how to look for what girls have jubblie and cheek implants and will steer clear – it’s preventative, really)
• loves nothing more than to lay in bed with me under the covers
• dances for lipjive
• wants to play cars and hang out at night
• has no problems going into the nursery, but still runs for me everytime I come to pick him up

But somehow that doesn’t all fit onto his scotch tape name tag.  And anyways, Hubby and I may need that arm in our old age when JJ’s pitching for the Red Sox – somebody’s got to take care of us. 

JJ Jawings, Mama Musings