"No" Should be a One-Way Street

It’s hard being Mommy to the most beautiful little girl in the world. It really is. When she was first born it wasn’t so difficult; she slept a lot, she stayed where she was put- she spent most of her time simply being cute.

Now she hardly sleeps, she never stays still, and she spends most of her time getting into trouble. There are just too many buttons on the microwave that need to be pushed. Too many books that need to be washed in toilet water. So many high places to climb that double as good places to practice ladder-building skills in order to reach.

How quickly babies go from being innocent well-behaved people to world-menacing toddlers. Whoever decided that the word “no” should be a simple two-letter word must have been an illicit drug user or had no experience with parenting. Children learn the word much too quickly. I suppose it is possible that if the word were pronounced “imneptabulous” children could still learn to say it rather young.

As much as toddlers and babies alike love to say “no,” they tend to become completely and utterly offended if the word should be directed toward them, and they wail and scream as though their very life is at an end. “No, you can’t juggle the cleaver.” “No, you may not put your finger in the electrical outlet.” “No, you may not hang from the chandelier.” It’s all very dramatic.

In the last couple of weeks, the baby has begun to put on her most pathetic face and whimper “come here, come here,” as she lifts her arms to be picked up and skooshes her fingers open and closed. She especially loves to pour on the ooey-gooey cuteness after she gets in trouble. I need to work on my stern face.

Destruction is My Middle Name

Destructo Baby has struck again. That little girl of mine is like a one person wrecking machine. When I think back and try to remember something that my son has broken, I come up blank. I can recall lots of things that my husband has broken though, and I am beginning to wonder if the baby has come by it honestly enough. Perhaps there is a chromosome that dictates clumsiness or a strong liking to hear things smash.

This past week my baby broke the glass in my only tabletop frame, and has obliterated two of my fondue/dipping dishes. I had two sets of four dipping dishes, now I have two sets of three; the least she could have done was to break two dishes from the same set, leaving me with one complete set.

I have tried to interest the child in plastic dishes and Tupperware containers to no avail. It would seem that although she is a bit of a monkey, she remains a little girl in that place that likes pretty things. She continued to go back to the cupboard that housed those baby-sized dishes that seemed just her size.

It would have behooved me to move these items when she showed such a relentless interest in them. Having such a small amount of cabinet space as I have, the task overwhelmed me and I settled myself into the knowledge that I would have to keep a watchful eye and reprimand as I saw fit.

Or maybe it was just laziness that kept me from doing a bit of rearranging in the kitchen. After all, my son has lived three years so far without smashing anything beyond its potential to be used. The death of that second dish cured me of my laziness though. Where once rested two small serving bowls and eight dipping plates there is now a handful of travel mugs. These are much harder to destroy and are not as tempting to the eyes and hands of a baby bent on destruction.