He ain’t hungry, he’s my brother

My boys must sense my parental skills are waning. Last week, Buster stepped in to help me overcome an impasse with Big Man. Not to be outdone at helping Daddy get some parenting accomplished, Big Man jumped in this time and hefted me over a hurdle with Buster.

Saturday morning Mommy went to work. Big Brother, Buster, Big Man and I deserved a treat, so we drove to the place that once was a donut shop and now is a liquor store that sells donuts. Everybody got to pick out the donut he wanted. Some were vocal and decisive, while others gave mumbly, vague answers. Once I had satisfied myself, and the people in line behind us, that every boy wanted the same donut as his older brother, we were able to move aside and let the remainder of our community have a crack at a nutritious breakfast.

A five-minute car ride, including a 10-minute argument over who got to hold the box, brought us home. I served the donuts, leaving everyone much pleased with his treat, except the boy who wasn’t. There’s always one who can’t handle happy times.

Today’s sourpuss was Buster. “I don’t want this kind of donut,” he pouted. It was the only kind we got, because it’s everybody’s favorite. If I’d gotten him a different kind, he’d have fought his brothers for this one. As recently as six minutes ago, he wanted this kind, but times had changed since then.

“You asked for this one,” I reminded him.

“I don’t want this kind.”

My sweet, fresh donut was beckoning me, but my mouth was employed arguing with a four-year-old. I should have picked up some liquor to help me get past this donut brunch.

He would stare at it, but he wasn’t going to eat it. No matter it was his favorite, he was in an argument now, and he meant to stand his ground.

I too was in an argument, but I meant to eat a donut. This I did, even as Buster scowled at me for ignoring the hardship I’d caused him. It was trending toward an angry morning.

There would have been trouble, if not for Big Man’s caring soul. He knew they were good donuts, because he’d just polished off one himself. He picked up Buster’s donut and gently pressed it to Buster’s lips. Buster clenched his mouth shut. Holding the donut to Buster’s mouth, Big Man used his free thumb to pry down Buster’s bottom lip. Buster tried to hold his lips together, but he could not resist the combined appeal of the donut and his little brother’s sincere desire to see him fed.

Buster relented. He took a little bite. Of course, he liked it; it’s his favorite. He took a bigger bite. Big Man patiently held it for him until he was ready to concede stubbornness and just be happy eating a good donut.

By the time I grabbed the camera the battle was mostly won. Strawberry frosting and brotherly love are powerful foes.

By the time I grabbed the camera the battle was mostly won. Strawberry frosting and brotherly love can be powerfully convincing.

Sometimes only a little brother can save the day.

May they always take care of each other like this.

Grown man seeks help of preschooler to outwit toddler

Big Man is a model two-year-old when it comes to going to sleep at night. Once I get him to his room and lay him down in his bed he goes right out and sleeps until morning.

The disagreeable part is getting him to his room when it means leaving behind his family, who could potentially still have fun without him, in the living room.

It’s my job to put him to bed, and the moment he realizes I mean to do it, he runs straight at Mommy. As much as she wants him to get his rest, Mommy relishes this moment. Big Man is often too busy hiding TV remotes and telephones to be much of a snuggler. But as soon as Daddy says it’s time for bed, he dives for Mommy’s lap like she’s the last chopper out of Saigon.

The words, “Time for bed,” signal Big Man that he should do something endearing, making desirable his continued presence in the land of the conscious. Everyone understands the game.

The other day, Big Man and Buster were playing LEGOs. We have a big, basket/bag hybrid container full of sundry LEGO pieces from the many sets we’ve built and smashed as a family. In years to come, when the boys inquire about their college funds, I will point to that basket; it’s all tied up in precious LEGOs.

The dreaded LEGO basket/bag. It doesn't look like a lot, but underneath the three big pieces are 999,999,997 tiny pieces.

The dreaded LEGO basket/bag. It doesn’t look like a lot, but underneath the three big pieces are 999,999,997 tiny pieces.

There are like a billion LEGO pieces in that basket. When a substantial portion of them gets dumped out it becomes a daunting clean-up project. Having the entire basket dumped out makes me want to put a For Sale sign on the house and let the next people deal with it.

On this particular day, Big Man and Buster had a fraction of the contents on the floor at clean-up time. Buster, being the biggest brother at hand, was in charge. He began to do his duty. Big Man, however, donned the “I’m too young to be expected to pick up after myself” attitude.

It turns out Big Man does know how to pick up, especially when it's time for bed.

It turns out Big Man does know how to pick up, especially when it’s time for bed.

For the record, Big Man is not too young. He is often astute at picking up. Buster knows this about his little brother, and was rightfully irked by the idea of picking up by himself.

Buster appealed to me to intercede, but it can be challenging to compel a two-year-old to pick up LEGOs when he has no mind for it. I tried many forms of soft coercion, all to no effect.

He even knows where things belong, but only when it's time for bed.

He even knows where things belong, but only when it’s time for bed.

That’s when my genius four-year-old dealt me an ace. Buster whispered to me: “Tell Baby he has to go to bed if he doesn’t help.” (Big Man is still Baby to him.)

I turned to Big Man. “You don’t want to pick up LEGOs?”

He shook his head.

“Well then, I guess it’s time for bed.”

Big Man dropped whatever useful device he was trying to pry the batteries out of and darted to the LEGOs. In five minutes the floor was clear.

Everyone understands the game, and some have figured out how to play it.

Money for nothing (and some chips for free)

A whole year ago, at the tender age of three, Buster began pulling at my heart strings to make me feel guilty about leaving for work in the mornings. I eventually bought him off by explaining that I had to work to earn money so I could buy things, like cookies and Doritos.

The horrible thought of not being able to afford snacks toned down his guilt trip, allowing me to get away without feeling I was abandoning my children to the wolves. For months, I believed a boy’s lust for cookies had solved the abandonment issue.

I was wrong.

It’s not that Buster has committed himself to anything drastic, like healthy eating; he’s just never fully abandoned the notion that he can have both Daddy on weekday mornings and cookies.

This morning he introduced his new tactic. “Don’t go to work,” he pleaded. “I’ll give you money if you stay home.”

So it’s come to this – children trying to buy their parents’ love. Doesn’t he know that never works?

First of all, it’s the government’s job to pay people not to work, and he could get into a lot of trouble if the government found out he was honing in on its racket. Second, I know the sum of ready cash to which he has access. It amounts to about $2. I don’t know how many Oreos he thinks that will buy, but it’s hardly an economic incentive to keep me at home when I can make double that amount by going to work.

In Buster's mind, this is how much money he can offer me. Here, he pictures me going off to trade it for a cartload of treats.

In Buster’s mind, this is how much money he can offer me. Here, he pictures me going off to trade it for a cartload of treats. Unlike going to work, this is a valid reason for me to leave the house.

Consequently, I had to refuse his offer, but he didn’t take defeat lying down. In fact, he would only take it by being picked up. As I bent over to hug him goodbye, he made the apparently innocent request, “Pick me up and hug me.” This request is anything but innocent.

Buster is a world champion hugger, and once he gets his hug all up over you, it’s a chore to break free of it. He’s all arms and legs, which encircle his target like creeping vines. He is one prehensile tail away from having the grip of a monkey in a windstorm.

But the real curse of his hug is the sweet, warm feeling of being loved it gives the hugged. It must be a similar dreamlike feeling that insects get after being injected with venom and wrapped up snug in a spider web. You want to resign yourself to captivity.

Every time I pull away from Buster’s hug, he leaves with another little piece of my heart. But a man greedy for a fistful of quarters does what he has to do. Somehow, I did it soon enough to stay on schedule for work.

That’s when I encountered the slowest, longest, freight train on Earth, crossing the road between me and my workplace.

I was annoyed that the train made me late, but I was even more annoyed that I could have used that time to get more Best Hug in the World.

We’re goin’ over the wall tonight

The youngest boy has crossed the last threshold out of babydom. He’s learned to escape his crib – only his motive is not so much escape and it’s not really a crib he’s exiting.

THE SNEAK

They all, in their own time, figured out how to shake free of the crib. Big Brother executed his escape plans quietly, never letting us know he was plotting a breakout until we heard the loud thud from his bedroom floor.

Being first-time parents, we had foolishly parked a dresser at the foot of his crib. Climbing up to the top of that dresser was Phase One of his plan. He hadn’t really thought through Phase Two, which resulted in the thud of his bouncing off the floor.

Let's do this!

Let’s do this!

We couldn’t believe he wasn’t broken; his thud sounded like a cannon ball hitting the house. We immediately banished the dresser and made all manner of rookie parent safety adjustments to his crib.

Leg up.

Leg up.

THE HARD CASE

Buster was a loud prisoner. He wouldn’t stand the injustice of being left in a crib and he let us know it. It was only a matter of time before he made his first thud in a misjudged leap to freedom.

And over.

And over.

His thud wasn’t as loud. There was no tall dresser to climb onto, and he was a smaller kid, except for his lungs. Still, we lived up to the letter of the parental contract by checking on him to make sure he was a bouncer. Then we put him directly back to bed. If he kept making thuds like this, after a while, I’d see about lowering the crib mattress to make egress more difficult.

Roll.

Roll.

He kept making thuds, and eventually I adjusted his crib. After more thuds, I adjusted it again, and again. When his hole was as deep as it could go and he still climbed out of it, we put him in a big boy bed. That wouldn’t hold him either, but at least it would give some relief to the floor.

Second leg up.

Second leg up.

THE GRACIOUS HOUSEGUEST

Big Man doesn’t sleep in a crib, not because he’s bigger than his brothers were and might put a hole through the floor. He took a liking to sleeping in his pack-n-play after he graduated the cradle. We tried the crib a few times, but he preferred the pack-n-play. He sleeps well there and hardly ever acts like a caged animal.

And down. Happy face.

And down. Happy face.

And now he can climb out of it. There are no thuds. It’s lower than the crib, but the deftness with which he climbs out makes us doubt he’d thud out of the crib either. The kid is a ninja, using his feet and hands in concert to roll silently over the wall.

He doesn’t do it to escape; he does it because it’s morning time. There’s none of Big Brother’s, “I’ll act cool until your back is turned,” or Buster’s, “I’m breaking out of this hell hole, you dirty rat!” In his toddler way, Big Man is telling us, “Don’t trouble yourselves. I’ll see myself out.”

I’m hoping our graceful little country squire will soon begin offering to make breakfast.