Minding My Manners

Children are extremely clever. They have this uncanny ability to take what you’ve taught them and apply it right back at you. AND, their timing is so impeccable that when they use said teaching against you, you can’t rebuttal because they catch you right in the act of committing the crime. This leaves you at once proud of them for learning the principle so well that they can teach it, and annoyed at their ability to reverse the parent and child roles to discipline you at your own misbehavior. My Smarty-Pants King A happened to pull a check-mate on me.

It was early morning, and I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off to get both King A and Lord R ready for daycare. To save time, I instructed King A to potty on his own accord. Meanwhile, I chased down a half-naked Lord R who has managed to escape my clutches after a diaper change to crawl from the bathroom, through the hallway, and ending in King A’s bedroom, where he was entertained by a plethora of toys on the floor.

From a short distance away, I could hear King A holler, “I’m done, Mommy.”

“Have you pottied?” I asked.

“Yes,” he confirms.

“Good job, Sweetie! Now wash your hands,” I reminded him without laying eyes on him. Moments later, I heard the rubber base of the stepping stool skid along the bathroom floor's tile as he pushed it from the toilet to the sink, followed by the sounds of the faucet water turning on. Still keeping an eye on a playful Lord R, I opened King A's drawers to pull out a Wall-E underwear.

"Come get your underwear when you're done washing your hands," I said.

A half-naked King A stepped out of the bathroom into the adjoining hallway and paused. I'm standing at the other end of the hallway just outside the his bedroom door with Wall-E in hand. He reached his hands out to accept the underwear I'm holding, but I realized that the distance was too vast for the lengths of our arms to meet. Rather than closing the distance with a few extra steps, I decided to throw his underwear to him. He wasn’t prepared to catch it, so it landed on the ground a foot away from his feet. I could see his eyes following the trajectory of the underwear; his head lowered to where Wall-E had landed and then it raised again to look at me. When our eyes met, he said, “Mooommmmmmyyyy?!” He spoke with a slightly high-pitched inflection on the second syllable, and filled with implications of I-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that.

“Oh sorry! Just pick it up.”

“But, you’re suppose to hand it to me," he said indignantly.

Weighing the options of debating with him or just picking up the underwear, I decided that the latter option would be faster. I stepped two paces, reached down to pick up Wall-E and placed it in his outstretched hand.

“See, isn’t that better?” he praised and reprimanded me, simultaneously. I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Mommy. I love you."

Cute? Check. Brat? Double check. It is my own fault (and source of motherly pride) for instilling in him the virtues of respectfully handing objects to others. Now, if only I can also get away with teaching him: Do as I say; not as I do. (Wink)

The Little Bird that Got Tangled

Once in a blue moon, my sons would join forces. Collectively, these psychological geniuses would push every single one of my buttons, and then some. On those rare occasions, I can’t help but think, I look forward to the day you boys grow up. But, just as soon as that thought escapes my tired and susceptible mind, I immediately feel guilty for letting such a thought surface. The truth is, I want my sons to experience their childhood without haste or (too much) regrets; to enter and exit each chapter of their lives exploring unhindered, failing with grace, and taking away the trials and tribulations that will build the foundations that cement them into upstanding men...like their father.

Yet even as I plead to Father Time not to tick and tock so quickly, to my dismay, I find myself watching them grow right before my eyes. This is especially evident with my older son, King A. I wish it were just a figment of my imagination fueled by my fear of him becoming independent of his mommy. Yet, it is no illusion that the roundness in his cheeks are slimming and the first signs of a defined jawline are showing through, or that the dimples that line along the base of each of his fingers (when he opens the palm of his hands) have disappeared. More noticeably, there are mature mannerisms that he expresses that stops me dead in my track and wonder, What the heck?

One weekday, at the rude hour of 7:30 in the morning, I entered King A’s bedroom armed with my iPhone in hand blasting a playlist I named A's Soothies. It is a compilation consisting of some of his favorite songs: "Hey, Soul Sister," "Rocketeer," "Fireflies," and a few others that instantly turn an upside-down smile right side up. When he heard the music, he immediately reached for his blanket and pulled it over his head. Simultaneously, he flipped onto his belly, tucked his legs under, and chucked his bottom up. In the few steps that it took me to reach his bed, I was greeted by a human boulder covered with a distorted face of Buzz Lightyear. After much coaxing, he relented and allowed me to remove the cover. I carried him to the bathroom to begin his morning hygiene routine.

I began by removing his soaked Pull-Ups and set him on the toilet seat. Like most men (you know who you are), it takes him several minutes before a stream begins to flow. Shocking. I settled on King A's stepping stool nearby and waited impatiently as he voided. Anxiety slowly gained momentum at the thought of being late to work again. When he was finally done, I picked him up and set him on the ground before me to pull on his Lightning McQueen underwear. He stood in front of me with his eyes still closed. The allure of his recently vacated and still warm bed tempting him and paralyzing him from doing anything else except stand limped before me. In my seated position, his face was only inches away from mine. I stared at his features. He looked so innocent and small with his buzzed hair in disarray, and a white trail of drool crystallizing at the corner of his mouth. In spite of this, he was still the most beautiful being beholding my eyes; I saw a child with luminous skin, rosy red lips, beautiful large eyes framed with mile-long lashes fluttering like a butterfly as he tried to come out of his sleep stupor. I sat mesmerized by his placid beauty. Time and responsibilities were momentarily forgotten.

And just like that, the image of the innocent and naive toddler before me floated away suddenly, startled off, when his dimple-free, right hand reached around from his side to cup his crotch! Then, he began to vigorously jiggle it! Finally, he ended the assault with a quick shake of his right leg. Awkward. Initially, I had the visceral reaction to look away. But, the mature woman and mother in me snapped me out of my matronly moment, and replaced it with a form of scientific curiosity. I had never seen him do this before. Is it discomfort? A UTI? A simple itch? Or could this be something else, entirely? I’m sure if his father were present, he would know what to do. But as his mother, I felt like a fish out of water. Clueless, I began with, "Is everything alright?"

He gave me a wide, doe-eyed look as he answered, “Mommy, my wee-wee hurts.”

I used my index finger to pull the elastic waistband of his underwear away from his tiny waist to expose the contents inside. I peeked in, and “it” looked normal to me. It didn’t seem pinched or otherwise. Rather, it would be best described by Jim Carrey in Liar Liar as “short, shriveled and to the left.” So, I placed his waistband back. This resulted in him pulling and tugging at it even harder.

“Stop, cutie. You’ll hurt yourself,” I warned. Then I pulled out his waistband again. This time I instructed him, “Here, why don’t you fix your birdie.”

And, fixed it, he did. It's a mystery to me how he did it so effortlessly. He was content after what seemed like a quick adjustment.

“Better?” I asked.

With a smile slowly forming on his face, and the frown ebbing away, he nodded, and replied a cheerful, "Yep." Then, he kissed the back of my hand that helped pull his elastic band out, followed by a tender hug and a peck on my cheek.

I’m still not convinced that I did much for him, but I relish at the affection that he gave me anyway. And just like that, the affectionate toddler returned and began jumping around, carefree and playful with Lord R.

Unbeknownst to him, his moment of "manly" discomfort is my reminder that Father Time stands still for no one and that the pages in the "Toddler" chapter of his life are coming to an end. The stirrings of emptiness that King A is slowly creating as he makes his transition into the next chapter is a natural course of life, but that doesn’t mean I can’t kick and scream along the way and hold on to what is near and dear to me for a little bit longer — my baby boy. My one saving grace is that I have a younger Lord R to replace King A's void. I know one day Lord R will do something unexpectedly startling and innovative to prepare me of his transition as well. I’m not too keen on that day. However, despite my reluctance to severe the umbilical cord...I am most definitely excited to meet the future King A and Lord R.

The Birth of Binky

There was a time in my short existence when my worries were few and far between. My priorities were focused solely on my promising career as a budding Web Designer; my adorable and complicated college sweetheart husband; and last but not least, yours truly.

And then...the most unexpected and amazing change happened. With hearts bursting of love and a house filled beyond capacity with formula, diapers, and Baby’s-R-Us toys, my husband and I welcomed our sons – short, bald men who would soon steal our hearts, and render us into countless smiles.

My sons, nicknamed King A and Lord R (to protect their identities on the Internet), are 3 years old and 7 months old, respectively. Despite their youth, they are characters. Their personalities are marked by an intricate and complex fusion of unconditional love, childhood innocence, foolish gallantry, understated selfishness, nonsensical logic, and attitudes equaled only to divas. My life, with them in it, is nothing less than sheer exhaustion. However, like the shining stars that they are, their megawatt smiles, unexpected showers of kisses, and singsong cooing, cast away all depths of shadow, and give life to everything their rays touch.

Here at ickyBINKY, you won’t find a blog about dirty pacifiers. Rather, ickyBINKY is my creative outlet to share with you my unfolding tapestry of motherhood and marriage richly woven by my whimsical sons (owners of some very icky binkies); and interlaced with deep chuckles of laughter, not so compromising compromises, and stolen moments of romance with my “it” man. Join me as I chronicle all this, along with my less than successful parenting skills and myriad comedic failures as a mommy, a wife, and often times (sigh), a discombobulated moving mass of chaos.