PPP&P part deux :
Because this weekend Mac has essentially declared that he will not poo in the potty and has had at least two very recent mishaps that defy the law of physics (I’ll spare you the details. ) and has drawn his Maginot Line in the sand, written in yellow so to speak. The results of our assault are Gallipolian in nature. So, I do want to report that Scarlett, on the other hand, seems to be right on potty-training schedule. She has responded pavlovianly to the lolly-pop bribe, and a time or two now has literally peed on command when reminded what was in it for her.
Needing no bribe, Jackson can always be relied on to pee the moment he is sans couche.
Who ever said that parenting gets easier with each additional kid was out of their frakin’ minds. Prior to the arrival of each kid, some well meaning but delusional acquittance would slap my back and tell me that this one would be easier. If anything, I have found that managing each new bundle of unbearable joy has in fact been harder and harder. I think the fallacy is thinking that now that we’re experienced parents we won’t go through the same mistakes that noob parents do, but that’s not true.
With each new kid, you again remember at three in the morning that one trick you had forgotten that suddenly shunts the baby back down into a quiet bliss. Whether its swaddling or rhythmically ‘shh-ing’ or reading them excerpts from Lacan’s le stade du miroir, these epiphanies will come back, but aren’t instantly recalled until sleep deprivation kicks in.
I try to discuss this with Jennifer but these days she is bone tired and all she hears is “wah-wah, Jennifer, wah wah wah,” like the Peanuts’ trombone sound effect of adults speaking to Charlie and the gang. But in her moments of lucidity, she tells me that she has been told it’s tough to go from one to two kids, but that each additional one thereafter really doesn’t matter; she agrees that these same fountains of wisdom had run dry some time ago and forgotten some of the siege-like trappings of parenthood.
one. Jackson, if he resembles anything, is starting to resemble his older brother. Initially there was some hints that he was looking more like a Whitman/Bradley, but suddenly today, there is something in the shape of his eyes and chin that reminds us of Mac. But what he really looks like is a small wizened man that is mostly all head, the rest—his body,legs, arms—merely being superfluous, not useful, not needed
two. Scarlett’s ability to manipulate me and others keeps increasing, exponentially. I grow more and more concerned that I will soon learn the true power of a Daddy’s Girl. She is not even two and so I can only imagine her at 24. I only hope that my Jedi-mind training will be up to snuff by then.
three. Maconnell’s routine is to start slowly in the morning. Much like his mom, he is comatose and moribund first thing in the morning and really needs his cup of Joe (milk) and at least a half hour of quite reflection while he eats breakfast and catches up on the latest news on MSNBC (Wonder pets), before he can be addressed or spoken to without eliciting a snarl (again much like his mom) but then he will rev up and up throughout the whole day until he is refusing to end the night and go bed. This evening he took off his pajamas and tossed them away and then hid in his play-tent, informing his mother that “I don’t want to put on my pajamas and go to bed.” Strong logic there: No pajamas, no bedtime.