Charlie and Me

In classic form for me, I saw the movie "Marley and Me" without ever having read the book.  For those who have who haven't done either, the premise is quite simple: Marley, a ridiculously cute Golden Retriever puppy, is constantly getting into trouble.  He is tolerated long enough for him to become an irreplaceable part of the family.  Impish until even his last days, when he becomes ill and weak, his owner sits vigil beside him, petting him and saying, "you're a good dog," despite the havoc the pup always raised.

Charlie is a ridiculously cute kid who is constantly getting into trouble.  Let's look at some pictures from last week.

(Not pictured: Charlie putting a bowl full of cereal on his head for a hat. Charlie digging out and wearing half a tub of Vaseline.  Charlie applying mascara all over his face and the carpeted stairs.  Charlie trying to cut my hair. Charlie throwing fistfuls of chip crumbles at me.  And my favorite: Charlie smashing a raw egg on the kitchen floor, only to start eating a second raw egg and then smashing that one into the living room carpet).

Today I opened the door to his room as Charlie repeated "uh-oh, uh-oh." He had thrown a stuffed animal at his wall to hit a very high, unreachable shelf.  A sentimental figurine that had belonged to my grandfather when he was a boy was in pieces.  It was the one thing I had left of my Grandpa, who died three years ago; that, along with Charlie's middle name Griffith, which was my Grandfather's first name.  And while I am often heard pairing these names in an aggravated "Charlie Griffith!," as I picked up the pieces of the figurine, I had nothing left to yell. I just cried.

I am exhausted, exasperated, and trying to exhale. There is a parenting trend going on right now, a wise one, to not label your kid, or at least not with terms that are negative.  So I try not to call him difficult, strong-willed, frustrating, crazy.  I try to use words like spirited, strong, powerful, persistent.  Someday his intensity will translate in an astounding way into whatever he chooses to do.  He will likely be one of the best, one of the smartest, one of the strongest, one of the hardest workers . But today, he is difficult, strong-willed, frustrating and crazy spirited, strong, powerful and persistent. Added with the throes of age two, and it's a recipe for prayer, wine, and mindless TV for me at the end of the day. 

The end of the day, though, often doesn't come until a battle has reached completion.  After Charlie's door is closed, there is screaming, sobbing, begging for Mommy and Daddy, kicking the door, desperate jiggling of the door handle lock.  Having climbed out of his crib when he barely turned two years old, he has a bed but has never slept in it.  After the fight with his will is done, he surrenders on a pile of blankets in front of the door. Every. Night. Sometimes the rage lasts ten minutes, sometimes it's two hours.  

But  before his door is closed, there are nights when he lets me hold him for a while, sing and talk to him and tuck him into the bed he never stays in.  In these rare and sweet moments, amidst the "I love yous" and all the snuggles and kisses I can get away with, I make sure he's listening before I tell him, "Charlie: you are a good boy, a very good boy."