Big Daddy Paul

Our adorable little boy is a bit of a menace. When he was a wee little toddler, he routinely slapped Amy and I in the face, such that at one point I was afraid to have my face within arm’s length of him. He then learned how to bite. He would bite anytime and for any reason. Usually, he would get me when I wasn’t expecting it and in some bizarre spot that really hurt, like my back fat.  After finally getting over biting, he realized that he could use his fingernails as tiny little talons, and tried to remove most of the flesh on my face.  Then, he took up kicking. Now, he can punch. He has developed what some might categorize as a right cross, which by itself wouldn’t be that bad except for the fact that he has also developed a left roundhouse, which hits you when you least expect it. It hurts.

Sadly, each time he progresses through a phase, I am relieved and think, “wow, glad all that nonsense is over,” only to have it replaced by newer, far more dangerous behavior. I mistake his disinclination to use outmoded means of combat as signs that he is becoming a sweet little boy, when, in fact, he is just waiting to roll out the more terrifying weapons at his disposal. Silly me for thinking that my boy will ever be non-violent. I guess he has as much chance at learning to be a pacifist as I have of becoming a vegan.

Sometimes, I wish that his arms and legs were always buried in the sand

Things are especially bad now that he has stopped taking naps.I blame it on his biorhythms being all out of whack, but at times, he completely loses it. The other day, he hit punched one of his best friends in the face for trying to take a turn at steering a trolley car at a park, and when I announced that we were leaving, he started hitting and kicking me. When I picked him up to put him in the car, he tried every trick he had in the bag to hurt me; luckily I am still larger than him, so I was able to restrain him and not take a licking. He is pretty cool most of the time, but when he doesn’t get what he wants, it is Hurricane Malcolm in all its fury.  I hope he gets adjusted to the new schedule soon, because I am afraid he is going to catch me one of these times and the damage will be significant. I’m not saying that I want my kid to be perfect, I am just hoping that one day I won’t live in mortal fear of him. Is that too much to ask?

It certainly has been interesting to watch our son Malcolm grow up.  He turns 4 next week, and when he is not is not exasperating, he is enjoyable.  Having watched him grow, I began to wonder whether his traits are all that different than the traits of men my age.  So, here’s my take.

Mischievousness – Little boys like to stir the pot.  When you tell them not to do something, like stick wood chips in their socks or scratch you in the face, they want to do it even more.  They get a look in their eye when they are doing it, a look that tells you that they know they are not supposed to be putting a handful of coins in their mouth, but are enjoying it nonentheless. This traits continues into manhood, as men like doing things that they know their significant others would not approve of.  It’s why Hooters continues to be in business, and also the sole reason for the continued use of cigars in today’s world.  The difference between men and boys is that as men we have learned to hide the unwanted behavior instead of magnifying it in front of the rulemakers.

Fighting – Boys are hard wired to fight.  It is a constant struggle as a parent to remind your boy that the first solution to any disagreement should not be a headlock.  The next time you are out in nature, watch the glee in your boy’s eyes when he picks up a stick, and realizes that he has just found a pretty bitchin’ sword.  When two boys each pick up sticks and realize simulaneously that they have bitchin’ swords, they will each immediately use their new weapon to try and poke the other’s eyes out.  I am pretty sure this was how Star Wars was created.  As men, we have the experience to know that fighting usually involves you getting your ass kicked and needing to go to the dentist.  Most of us have stopped trying to physically brutalize one another, and have evolved to the point where making fun of one another is enough to satisfy urges.  Football is a great avenue for satisfying your need to make fun of other guys, especially since it is a violent sport and you can live vicariously through your football team.   If you bring two guys into nature and put fantasy football teams in front of them, they will each pick one and begin making fun of the other’s.  This way, no trip to the dentist is needed.

Interest In Touching Their Private Parts – some things never change, and the desire to constantly be stretching, scratching, or just plain fiddling is as strong today as it was when I was Malcolm’s age.

Impulse Control- Little boys have no impulse control.  If a boy sees a cat, he must try and pull its tail.  If another child takes a favorite toy away, the other child must be bludgeoned.  All boogers must be consumed within three seconds of removal from the nasal canal.  Men have learned to control their impulses provided they have not been consuming alcohol.  Once alcohol enters into the equation, we are essential toddlers with money.  That is why places like Las Vegas are in business.

I guess Malcolm and I are not all that different.  I have the benefit of some extra experience, but our motivations are actually pretty similar. When he does irritating things, I have to remember that I do dumb things too, like when Malcolm threw my phone in the toilet, I should have remembered that I broke me previous phone by getting drunk and jumping off a houseboat with the phone in my pocket.  Not sure it help my parenting, but at least it will give me some perspective.

He is brutalizing me!

Malcolm is a wild beast right now.  The sleep deprivation accumulated over the weekend has really caught up with him and he is a mess.  He is whiny, violent, and seems to really enjoy making other people feel bad.  Of course, if you try to do any real parenting and enforce some rules, he falls apart and throws a tantrum.  I left a brewery in a rainstorm on Monday because he refused to listen to me and insisted on running around the place screaming at the top of his lungs.  We had to cut yesterday’s play date short because he wouldn’t stop antagonizing our neighbor’s kid.  I have cuts on my arms and face from him attacking me with his claws of death.  He is really out of control.

I did some internet research on sleep deprivation in kids and found some interesting results.  I learned from real life doctors that sleep deprivation leads to irritability, temper tantrums, crying and fussiness.  No shit?  Thank you parenting websites!   I now feel like I can be a good parent.  I guess I learned that most internet “experts” are little more than out of work weather forecasters. Trust yourselves, parents out there.  You know how to handle your kids better than the “experts” out there.  (This doesn’t apply to a narrow range of subjects like, “What is Lyme Disease?” or “My child’s foot has been severed.  What should I do?”)  Of course, you are probably reading this advice on the internet, so if I am correct, than you should disregard the advice and listen to the experts.  Sadly, I am an “expert” and you need to listen to my advice, which means that you should disregard my advice.  Holy crap! What are you going to do now?

Armed with a new sense of confidence, I turned inwards to figure out what to do with Malcolm.  I decided that the best course of action was for me to leave town and visit my friends in Boston.  So, I am leaving on Friday and letting Amy deal with the mess.  Good luck with all that, Amy!  (In the meantime, I am going to maximize his sleep opportunities by forbidding him from drinking lattes at night and by giving him a steady stream of boring lectures on the importance of behaving well.)  I am hoping that more sleep will take him out of the “Potential Sociopath” bucket and return him to the “Not Very Well Behaved Three Year Old” bucket.

I guess the worst part of this is that represents the peaks and valleys of parenting.  Some days are pretty cool, you child will perform a mathematical computation, or spell your name, or sing you a song that you have never heard before.  You smile and think to yourself, “this is why people have kids.”  Other days, you want to stick them in a sack with nothing but cough medicine to eat and dream of what life was like before you had kids.  So, you book a trip to visit your friends in Boston and let the cards fall where they may.  That’s my advice!

Malcolm is playing with his friend Jack.  They are playing some sort of good guy/bad guy, with me alternating between bad guy and badder guy.  They each have a arsenal of weapons, ranging from double light sabers to machine guns to the ubiquitous, "I have all the powers."  I have it on good authority that Malcolm has never seen a machine gun, yet he knows how to hold it and what it sounds like.  He has never seen Star Wars, yet his light saber of fast and strong, and he makes the wam wam sound that appears in the movie. 

Certainly, Jack has helped Malcolm along in his weapon education, but Malcolm has been all to receptive.  I fully believe that love of guns is hardwired into a boy’s brain.  This is based on my empirical study that A) all boys pick up inanimate objects and use them as weapons, and B) girls do not.  Don’t get me wrong, some boys move past this and start reading books (I never did) and some girls learn to kick a little ass. At this point in their development though, boys love weapons.  Give a boy a stick, and he will show you the myriad of ways he can use it to remove your brain from your skull.

I wonder what little cave boys did to entertain themselves.  Sure they had sticks, but what did they pretend the sticks were when they were bludgeoning their friends?  Is it possible that kids have been using light sabers for the entire history of humanity, and George Lucas just ripped off the idea from all us mean boys?  Or, did kids pretend that little sticks were actually really big sticks?  Did cave boys not need imaginations because they were actually killing animals with sticks?    I have the feeling that if Malcolm actually killed an animal with one of his weapons, he would go crying to his room and never come out.  Luckily we will never find out.