Thursday, November 13, 2008

Kiss the Fist

When I was a very new mom, I had a friend who I looked up to because her son was almost three and mine was just barely past two. Once as she and I tried to chat on the couch, her little son ran up to her and growled and waved his fists in her face. Not skipping a beat, she grabbed that little upraised fist and planted a kiss on it.

That image has stuck with me ever since. How much of mothering is really just kissing fists? Responding with love to whatever (testosterone-driven) madness your little hooligans dish out.

Especially today. Earlier today, I wrote:

Little Jesse spends most of his days being a "bad guy," or "a monster," or SpiderMan, or Batman. He makes "shing-shing" sword sounds while he pretends to slash me to ribbons with his finger. Is there anything more silly than a tiny, chubby, orange, spongecake baby stomping his lilly-white feet and roaring, "I'm a giant!"

Then later I came downstairs to find that Jesse had poured a glass of water under and possibly over my laptop. Then as I cried my woes to Mark, he got a new gallon of milk from the fridge and poured it on the floor. Then he slipped in it and was soaked head to toe in milk. Then while I sopped it up, he rolled around the couch, leaving milk stains on the cushions. Then in his bath he poured a bucket of water overboard onto the floor.

And now he's in bed.


  1. My kids had an eggg fight one day, and I don't think I handled it with love.

  2. Just to be clear, it was Jesse who poured milk on the flour, rolled in it, then left stains on the couch, right? Not Mark? Cuz the first time I read through your post that's waht I was thinking. It being Jesse makes much more sense!
    Boys. *Sigh* What can you say? You're right, all you can do is kiss their little fists. And call them a kitten. :)