Tuesday, September 9, 2014


Maddox threw a sippy cup at my face tonight.

This happened within minutes of me misjudging the distance from me to the wall and accidentally kicking the wall as I walked into the bathroom. You know when you accidentally run into something and it knocks the wind right out of you and it feels like your heart stops for a second or two and all you can feel is the excruciating pain in your [body part]? THAT.

And then that again a few minutes later when the rouge sippy cup hit me in the eye.

I know for a fact that there was no maliciousness involved in the throwing of the cup. I was just too close and that kid has an arm on him. I always say that I want him to be a baseball player. This is just that coming to fruition in the form of hard plastic being flung at my face at warp speed.

I cannot emphasize enough how sweet this boy is. He has his moments where he comes at my face with his teeth baring and his hands wrapped around most of my hair and I'm simultaneously trying to get away from the teeth and also trying to pry myself free and it's not working because he is strong and fast and that's a dangerous combo when it comes to biting. I don't want him to be a biter because I was a biter and after I bit all my cousins they took turns throwing hay bales on top of me and locking me in closets and collectively taking karma into their own hands. And I do not want that for him.

So I'm trying to teach him manners and to be nice and to not hit or throw and to play nice and be kind. There is a giant list that I have made up in my mind and I repeat all the live long day because of the short-term memories that toddlers seem to have when it comes to anything that doesn't involve cookies. But above all I'm teaching him to love.

Throwing a sippy cup at my face isn't love.

As I sat there in stunned silence for a second, I had to react. Through my tears (it freaking hurt, man.) I explained that that wasn't very nice and that really hurt mama...as the child was squirming out of my arms and screaming at me, turning his body into a limp noodle.

Parenting isn't the easiest thing I've ever done, I'd say. There are times when reasoning with a tiny human who doesn't understand words and who can't talk back and who is only signing "more please" a hundred thousand times isn't on the top of the things I want to do at that moment. In fact, after hearing his whine and the temper tantrums he now throws when I ask him to say please or when I tell him no (slapping his hands on the floor and putting his forehead on the ground), it would just be easier to give in.

But I'm choosing love.

I'm choosing love when it would be easier to choose anger or judgement or retribution. I'm choosing love when it would be easier to give in because there is no such thing as reasoning or explaining why. I'm choosing love when it comes to co-parenting because Evan and I disagree about spankings. I'm choosing love when it comes to everything about this baby boy because I want him to always choose love even when it's not the easiest or the funnest or the coolest option. I want him to always choose love because I can guarantee that it's the best option.

And so that's what I'm doing. When I run into the wall and when sippy cups are thrown at my face and all I want to do is scream profanities at the top of my lungs for a good, straight five minutes, I'm going to choose love and forgiveness (also forgiving myself for being a klutz and also thinking I can walk through the house in the dark).

3 loves: