Bye Baby. See you 'round 6:30 pm

You know, I find that the longer I live, the less I tend to judge people.

This morning I sent my 2 year old son to daycare, and I feel GLAD about it. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to sending him away since Marshall gave me the approval last Tuesday. Of the 4 kids, his terrible two’s have been the worse by far…and they started 6 months ago.

He’s so unpredictable.

There are days when I don’t know if he’s going to wake up and wrap me in a long, loving embrace or try to choke me. It’s like living with a heroine addict who is going through perpetual withdrawal. Having said that, it is without shame that I also say that I love my son deeply – but I DO NOT enjoy his company.

When I was single and leading up into my first years as a mother, I used to look upon stay at home moms who routinely sent their kids to daycare with utter disdain.

What where they doing all day? They didn’t have a JOB, so what gave them the right to send their kids to daycare? 

I was offended!

Now I know the answer: They were spending those few precious hours while their heathen horde were away regathering their senses, and they had earned that “right” because either 1) they could afford it or 2) someone was going to die if the kids didn’t get out of the house.

Whenever possible, I choose life; and that is why Stone is sleeping on a cot or playing outside with other 2 year old ruffians today.

As I type this I am amazed by how guilty I do not feel. There are days when I lie awake at night wondering where my sweet baby boy went, and how and when did I give room for Deuce to inhabit his body. (“Deuce” is the name I’ve given to the spirit that has possessed him.) A little while ago I wrote with pride that Stone had begun to leave his fecal matter in the toilet. Deuce has come around and negated all that effort, and it is with great trepidation and a little bit of anger that I find myself dislodging a heaping brown mess from his bottom every day between the hours of 9 and 10 am.

And then there is the verbal abuse I have to endure. Deuce has problems with authority and instruction. When Deuce does things like hit other kids or crush graham crackers into the carpet, he balls up his left fist and points his right finger in retaliation to any sort of reprimand.

“You ehe uhuh eher Huuuuu!!! Okay?!?!?” he hollers.

I can just hear the ‘old mothers’ now.

I ain’t gon’ have no two year old talking to me like that. I’d beat the Black off ‘im.

Well there’s only so much beating you can do before it becomes abuse. And because he is my son, I don’t hit him. Because if I did, I would take it too far. There is a level of restraint that an adult has when the child they are facing down is not there own. Bill Cosby was only half-joking when he said “I brought you in this world and I can take you out.”

I have consoled myself with the conviction that the change will be good for him too. He’ll get to run around with some other boys, do some arts and crafts, and have the benefit of a male role model (one of the directors is a man). And while I can only afford to put him in 2 days a week, I am pleased with the knowledge that those 16 hours will be well spent focused on long neglected pursuits, such as this blog and other pleasures I’ve forgone while battling my son’s demon.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to turn the volume back up on the TV. Maury is about to tell Deyquan if he IS (or is NOT) the father!