It's nearly 8:30 in the morning and I should be headed off to work already. I normally don't work on Fridays, but the launch of my new work website late this month means I'll not only be working every Friday in September, but long days and weekends as well. Given that, I thought: Why not one quick blog post over coffee and then I'll place my nose to the grindstone and don my professional shackles?
Speaking of working late ... that's just what I did on Wednesday. So when I went to pick up the boys at daycare, Wilder was giving me a funny look as I walked across the lawn toward the playground. I figured he was either giving me the nasty stink-eye for being so late, or he was thinking who the heck is that woman (I was wearing a nice dress and heels, and let's just say that happens rarely enough that my co-workers tend to make snide comments about how I must have a job interview, har har har ...).
So I commented on the look on his face, and his teacher, whom we adore, says: "He probably looks like that because he knows he's in trouble." Only, in my head, is was more like TROUBLE. Because this was the moment I'd been dreading: The day when I pick my child up and find out he's not been acting like the fine little gentleman I've been trying to raise him to be.
Turns out he'd been pushing another little boy around at school. All day. So much so that his teacher finally made them hold hands the rest of the day.
I knew it would come. I know it's normal to test the boundaries of acceptable behavior, and I've made sure his teacher knows that I want to be informed of any shenanigans from the get-go so I can address it immediately.
Which is what we did. We talked about it on the way home. I asked Jerry to talk to him about it when he got home. We talked about it again that night as we had our final chat before closed eyes (this is when I lie down in bed with him for a few minutes and we talk about the important stuff that happened that day -- which is usually just, "Hey, what was the MOST fun thing you did today?").
As an aside, this is where Wilder the Charmer comes in. As we were having that last chat to try keep him from hammering his daycare buddy around, he looks at me in his big, sweet Wilder way and says: "Mama ... your eyes are pretty ... they're green." Now, I knew I was being manipulated, but damn if I wasn't a little proud of my son for manipulating me so well.
Anyway, cut to the next day, yesterday, and me picking him up again. I walked in and the first thing that happens is one of the little girls comes up (God bless the little girls ... they're like the daycare broadcast department) and says: "Guess what, Wilder's mommy?" My heart sank. "What?" I answered. "Wilder was BAAAAAAAAAAD today." My eyes cut over to Wilder's teacher and she just nodded. "Same boy?" I asked. "Different one," she says. Not as bad, she adds, but still, Wilder was the instigator. So I made Wilder go over and give that little boy a hug and say sorry (I'm sure the kid was loving me for that; he was probably thinking, "Get your Genghis Khan off me!") .
So Jerry and I repeated the whole thing last night. But instead of saying anyone's name, as in: "Jackson is your friend, and you shouldn't push him," we opened up the realm of who you should and should not push, hit, kick, perform suplex maneuvers on, etc. to include the whole world of people you know.
I'm really hoping the problem was that we weren't specific enough, but I'll find out here in a few hours. But lord, please, don't let my child become the modern, daycare version of Idi Amin.
So there you have it -- Wilder's newest incarnations. Bully. Mama charmer. And oh yes, personal trainer ...
I have recently been trying not only to drop the remainder of my baby weight, but also trying to get in shape for the first time in years. I'll see how that goes, but to help, I bought an elliptical trainer. It has an iPod docker, so when I work out, I play music. Wilder is absolutely fascinated by the whole thing. "Cool!" he yells when I'm on it. He also yells: "Faster, mama! FASTER!!!" And he dances around the room with the dog, maniacal-mosh-pit style, with a huge ass grin on his face. And I tell you what: It really makes me want to go faster and have as good of a time as he's having. So there you have it, Wilder is my personal trainer, and he doesn't cost a dime.
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