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.

2 comments:

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

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  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. :)

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