"Take The Night Off"

Sorry for the prolonged absence. As of late, things have been quite busy 'round here thanks to the child-raising-and-whatnot, the freelancing and the extensive copy editing for a certain magazine staff that was partying in Austin at South By Southwest soaking up Booker T & The MGs, X Clan, Turbonegro, Mastodon, mc chris, Kenna, and Amy Winehouse leaving me to pull their weight back here at home.

Anyway, there have been a few new developments in our world in the last week-and-a-half. We have learned through a third party source that Connor's teachers think that he's the most consistently pleasant child in his class. But, we were also told, his poops are, by far, consistently the least pleasant. I'm not quite sure what we're going to do with that information—it's just nice to know that we're not being lightweights when we dry heave while changing his dirties.

Also, we've learned, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Connor most definitely has his mother's strong will—it's a will with more resolve than that of a cobra who refuses to let go of his prey, even when his head is cut off.

Last night, when Stacey put Connor to bed, I witnessed a test of wills that left me in awe and a little frightened of the two people who outnumber me in our three-person family. Instead of falling asleep fairly quickly, as he normally does, Connor got out of bed at least 75 times (I actually believe the final tally to be closer to 100 trips out of bed), and Stacey was charged with returning him to bed each time. I offered to step in for her, but she was fully aware that she and Connor were locked in a war—a war that she had to win.

The first 20 or so trips out, he simply whined and cried. Next, he begged for her to snuggle with him. When that didn't work, he said that he needed to "krow up in the sink." When that didn't work, he said that he needed to "krow up in the toi-wet." Next, he said his butt was itchy and that he had a bug in his diaper. Then he returned to the "krow up" ploy. He followed that up with a full-on temper tantrum, collapsing onto the floor. He, of course, threw in the "I want my Daddy," occasionally, just to make Stacey feel bad.

Finally, nearly TWO hours later, a completely exhausted Connor finally gave up and stayed in bed. No more than 30 seconds later, he was out cold. Neither Stacey nor I exhaled for at least five minutes, until we were certain that this torturous exercise was through. 20 minutes later, Stacey bravely entered Connor's room to cover him up. I partly expected her to smother him with a pillow out of frustration, but in anti-climatic fashion, she was in and out in less than ten seconds and Connor was none the wiser—and still alive.

It makes perfect sense that his school teachers think he's a very pleasant child—they've never had to put him to bed.