Anybody Got A Nice Cheese Pairing to Go With This Whine?

We allllllmost made it. Only a few steps from the front door of Ian's school and then he remembered the complaint he had forgotten during almost the whole walk.

"Mooooom," he says, wiggling, squinting up his face and slowing down like a dog you want to just start dragging by his leash (if he had one, which he doesn't, I promise, though I've thought of it). "I don't waaaant to goooo to schoooollll. I don't waaaant toooo gooooooo. I waaaant tooo staaaaay aaaat hooooome."

My answer is only: "You can't stay home because then you won't grow up to be a rich doctor." He doesn't get this. I keep pulling him by his mittened hand but decide to be open to his concerns (or at least appear that way).

So I ask him: "Why don't you want to go to school?"

"Because I want to stay home."

"But home is boring. Nothing happens at home. What do you want to do at home?"

"I want to play with my toys."

Of course, this is understandable. What child doesn't want to play with his toys?

"But what about the toys in your class? What about the video games at school that you like to play with on the computer?" But then I'm sorry to have said this, because it makes him remember that we don't have video games at home. Fool! This starts a line of questioning from him about wanting a video game and me answering "No Way" (see yesterday's post).

So then we're back to: "I don't waaaaant toooo gooo," with me dragging and him whining like a Nebraska cornhusker.

I have no strategy for this, and realize it will be a long war of attrition, with my patience and hair color as the main casualties. It's not just this year. It's next year, and it's 13 more years after that, and then it's hoping he doesn't drop out of college to travel the world and find himself. I don't have strategies for any of those things.

"Ian, you just have to go to school. That's it. Sorry. I don't know what to tell you."

He looks at me, disappointed, not that he has to go to school but that I don't have a more convincing argument. For a split second, I could swear he looks as if he even knows that it's his job to be difficult and my job to convince him of everything from the importance of toothbrushing after meals to the hazards of running at the pool.

If anyone else out there has figured out the argument that will make a kid want to go to school, or brush his teeth, or not run at the pool... I'm all ears.

Merry Canihavea

As it's getting close to Christmas, there was really no talking going on between Ian and I on today's walk. He had one question to ask and I had one answer.

"Mom, Can I Have A...?" is his question.

"We'll Have To Ask Santa," is my answer. My plan is to have Santa turn out to be a total deadbeat and someone I can blame if not all the presents show up, or show up not exactly as requested. I'm not even keeping a list of requests, so I am for sure going to screw up his gifts.

What I sort of remember from today's walk goes something like this:

Can I Have A alecia doll? (what's this, and why is he asking for a doll?)

Can I Have A mario game? (No Way am I bringing video games into my house... not yet. Once the video game dike breaks with three boys - my husband included - all six of their eyes will be fully dilated for the next 15 years and we'll have to deal with joystick thumb on top of it. No way. At least No Way, this year.)

Can I Have A racecar with a controller thingy? (does he think we live in a McMansion? No Way, again.)

Can I Have A machine gun? (I don't even need to say No Way for this one, do I people?)

Can I Have A scooter with only one wheel in back, not two? (OK, Ian, have you seen how badly you ride on the scooter you have now that has two wheels? And you think you're ready to balance on one? No Way, my friend.)

Can I Have A party at Chuck E Cheese? (Not unless Santa's paying.)

So now you must be asking yourself: Is Mom a complete scrooge? (No Way. Blame Santa.)

Here Be Dragons

I never knew the park was such a dangerous place.

Shortly into our walk to school, Ian doubles over, socked in the gut by some invisible fist. He holds his middle, writhes for a moment on the ground, then stumbles to his feet.

KaPOW! Arggh! BLAM! Ian coughs and sputters. He's short of breath. He gasps, still gripping his middle.

I start to ask him if he's OK, but quickly realize an imaginary comic strip is playing itself out, and I had better just keep eyes front and walk.

KaPOW! Sock! Sock! BLAM! Argghhhhhh! Ian staggers forward, barely catching himself with each step.

I walk a little faster, thinking maybe I can pretend I don't know him. Soon, he's a good ten paces behind me. At some point, I'll risk appearing like an irresponsible mother so I slow up to five paces. Ian's down again.

Argghhh! Ack! Grrrr! Argghhh! KaPOW! He recovers and is back up again, walking closer to me now, holding his right shoulder with one gloved hand and abdomen with the other. He seems to be coming out of the fight. It seems that he won. He's breathing heavy, trying to recover.

We reach the edge of the park, cross in front of Sinatra's high school. Ian's breathing is slower. He looks up at me, as if to reassure me:

"Don't worry, Mom. I'm OK."

I had no doubt.