My 9-year-old is growing into a magnificent young man. In the past two years or so, as his face shed its babyness, he began to also shed most of his little-boy naughtiness. He loves to read and learn about other
My 9-year-old is growing into a magnificent young man. In the past two years or so, as his face shed its babyness, he began to also shed most of his little-boy naughtiness.
He loves to read and learn about other countries, culture and history. He pores over a book on the Titanic my husband recently bought for him.
He works hard in school and plays hard in the backyard.
He’s a serious soul, my oldest child, but also a thoughtful one.
When he was mean to his younger brother last week, I asked him what he thought his punishment should be.
“I have to make his bed for a month,” he said solemnly.
“Agreed,” I said. “You also have to vacuum the playroom by yourself every Saturday.”
He has not shirked his duty.
On one of those mornings recently, when we were all scurrying around the house to get out the door on time, I stopped to look in their bedrooms before we left for school. Both the boys’ beds had been made. Not a sheet or comforter was out of place.
I smiled to myself and took a second to be thankful that my oldest is growing up with a sense of responsibility.
Then the 4-year-old screamed from the bottom of the steps that she did not want to put on her school clothes.
Just as my oldest is maturing, my youngest – previously my best-behaved child – has recognized her own will.
She doesn’t want to do a puzzle; she wants to play with Play-Doh. She doesn’t want the banana I just peeled for lunch, she wants an apple. She doesn’t want a ponytail, she wants a braid. She doesn’t want to wear “long-sleeved pants,” she wants to wear shorts.
“It’s cold,” I try to explain. “You’ll freeze.”
“Mom,” she says, with a look on her face that tells me I am a complete idiot. “It’s sunny and the trees aren’t even moving.”
“It’s also sunny and not windy in the middle of winter when there is two feet of snow on the ground,” I tell her. “That doesn’t mean its warm enough to wear shorts and a T-shirt.”
I try to lead her upstairs to change her clothes.
She folds her arms over her chest and stares at me.
My baby girl has grown into Miss Obstinate.
In her mind, she’s calling the shots and no one is going to tell her different.
When they were little, my husband and I used to laugh when someone asked the boys “Who’s the boss?” They used to say my husband was the little boss and I was the big boss.
Ask my daughter who’s boss. She’ll tell you: “Me.”
Right this moment, as I’m typing this, she’s hollering at me to stop working on the computer and put on a TV show for her. I’m ignoring her.
She tries to tell everyone what to do, when to do it and where she wants it done. Maybe being the youngest, she feels she has to assert herself.
Maybe she’s just going through a little phase.
I keep telling myself to be patient, yet firm. I look at my oldest and remind myself that this behavior will probably pass soon.
Then I think of my 8-year-old, the most curious, infuriating, mischievous, loving, smart-as-a-whip clown you’ve ever met in your life. And I can’t decide which brother I’d like her to take after.
