Peanut loves the bath, but some days is feeling obstinate. Shocking, I know, given his age and his temperament. So I broke out the classic fail-safe last night for the first time this year: “choose your bath color tonight.” A little cake gel colorant dissolved in a coffee cup and poured ceremoniously into the tub, and we had a whine- and struggle-free purple bath.

Battle-free technique number one

Nor, this particular evening did Peanut want to brush his teeth. We proffered the toothbrush that blinks. To no avail. Offered a choice of toothpastes and the option to self brush first or after parental brushing. Nothing. We suggested an upside down brushing (dangling toddlers works for anything but three year olds are *so* over that technique) but he declined. We settled for the threat, our last resort: no teeth, no stories. If you say yes stories, you say yes teeth. Your choice. We have no stake in the answer.

Grumblingly whiningly sold. Clean teeth and the never-yet-missed two stories.

There must be a better way.

So I thought of you. I’m offering up this post for those of you who are struggling with or masters of issues of any kind…let’s do a greatest hits of how to get around our children’s behavior. The colored bath and the upside down teeth brushing are my favorites at home. In public, a special purse toy that only comes out when I need five minutes of quiet work for us. Haircuts and hair tangles, in our house, get homemade yogurt popsicles in the tub. And veggie avoidance that goes on too long get broiled (425 degree, olive oil and salt) veggies delivered fresh from the oven to a Peanut in the tub. Because my kid thinks eating in the bath is the height of decadence. Whatever, dude, every other kid gets good bribes, like candy, but you don’t need to know that.

And for doctor’s visits, which none of us fear but I know some families do, are scheduled later the same week as one of my doctor’s visits, so he can see everything happen to me first.

What do you do for the reluctant toothbrusher? What is your magic, fail-safe, works every time trick for some issue your kid wants to get around? What issue do you desperately need advice on? Feel free to post anonymously. Just make up a fake email account from yahoo or hotmail and ask or answer as you see fit.

Ah, Peanut had a classic, classic first day at the co-op. Major resistance getting out the door. Don’t want to eat, don’t want to dress, don’t want to go. But, little man, I know we’ve only been over this ten thousand times, so I’ll patiently explain as though it’s the first conversation we’ve ever had, that this is a school where you do self-directed play and I’ll be there the whole time if you want me. And you’ve been there three times already for tours and orientation and such and never wanted to leave. Remember? You like this place. And I’m not leaving you there alone.

Oh. Okay.

He was a bit shy when he was in the morning circle, but the very minute we broke into the huge indoor and outdoor play spaces for the daily two-hour free-for-all playtime, he made a bee line for the child who told everyone about his new top that glows when you spin it, and asked the boy if he could try it. Awesome guts, Peanut. I like that. I don’t have that, and I won’t praise it ‘cuz we’re into that whole “narrate it but don’t judge anything they do” parenting style, but I totally dig it.

He tolerated the hyper-whiny kid, he defended his territory when bigger kids wanted to play with his puzzle, he took it well when the older kids wouldn’t let him play in their fort, he successfully diapered three baby dolls by himself in the loft (from which he banned me because I’m too big), sewed four buttons on his quilt piece, ate his tuition’s worth of popcorn at the snack kitchen, read several books with me and then with his freshly nappied dolls, and build some awesome marble roller coasters.

I love watching him from a distance as though I don’t know him. He’s perfect in every way.

Especially compared to *that* kid. And *that other* kid. Thank you, E. and I. and the others of your size and approximate age who wanted to play with him and invited him into your reindeer games. You’re lovely humans.

At song time Peanut was the first to answer at each turn how many monkeys were left jumping on the bed after their ill-advised mother ignoring. And when we celebrated one five-year-old’s birthday, he told me with no hesitation that the donut hole he tried was yucky and I *had* to eat his. He pushed a little shopping cart full of basketballs for more than 30 minutes straight, running in circles until he was flush and exhausted. And five steps out of the gate after it was all done, he completely lost his ability to be a grownup.

So we went home and he threw tantrums and I offered food and he refused to wash his hands and I offered nap and he started to slam the door but collapsed into a heap at my feet and needed a long cuddle to regain any semblance of reason. And we ate and slept and he told me after nap that he would really like me to stay in my room for a while while he played quietly by himself.

“It’s all just too much, Mom. I just need my house back.”

Oh, little guy, I hear ya. Good thing I get to put you to bed soon, because I feel exactly the same.

He was brilliant, school is going to be brilliant, and being allowed to read Mill on the Floss for half an hour while my small creature plays with his dolls alone is totally worth parenting dozens of ne’er-do-wells every Friday, my day to participate at our supportive, respectful, non-authoritarian, play-based, hippie co-op.

Yay, little dude and yay mama.

Know my idea of heaven? Being away from home, in either urban or rural setting, where my time is entirely my own and the only bottom I wipe is my own. Where I see friends of all sorts for eating and meandering and simply talking, all of which occurs without interruption except by consenting, pleasant adults. In this heaven there is no acting as full time Superego for my Id escapee; no addressing anybody’s sleeping, cleaning, reading, or playing needs but my own. There is intellectual stimulation and quiet in equal measure. There are deep breaths and completed thoughts completely bereft of whining, hitting, screeching, demanding, and throwing. In this heaven there is no Candyland.

Well, erumpent Id with messy bottom and multivalent sleep, cleanliness, reading, and play needs: I get all that heaven and more in one week. Hope the anticipation bodes well for your caretaking for the next seven days.

I think the WordPressspam filter might be biased against open dialogue and thoughtful comments. Because here are some of the things it caught today:

sKxthonjfwudyu, [url=http://mrexnftgfbqt.com/]mrexnftgfbqt[/url], [link=http://unfchazxfjub.gov/]unfchazxfjub[/link], http://pqekmqataalu.gov/
I think the spam filter might just be a prescriptivist linguist to single out this one, right? It’s just expressing the commenter’s heartfelt, if a bit non-English, feelings.

And, clearly, the spam filter doesn’t know about my multiple personality disorder, nor that my friends call me “dude” and “fella” and “bro” because it also split this comment away from the post for which the ideas are designed:
hi there dudes
my mother recently ran into an online store. the store is selling wide range of discounted label clothes. the shop is selling the items with almost 65% savings. my daughter really needs to get a pair before the get away but not sure that order will be brought in right on time. I am planning to order those prada shoes but not sure yet.
just urged to share with you bros.
thnx fellas.

And what kind of jingoistic, anti-capitalist spam filter can ignore the power of this:
I stand here today humbled by the task before dufus komas, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our cheap dufus komas. I thank President dufus power leveling for his service to buy dufus komas, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

It’s just the spam filter’s power structures and inherent prejudices trying to silence the voices of the powerless. Fight the spam filter.

And to you, gentle spambots, keep those nonsensical spam comments coming! You’re not wasting my time or limited brain space or anything by deluging my tiny little blog with crap. Really.

My mother tells very amusing anecdotes about my childhood, especially the bits about my precocious use of language. My favorite are the loud questions in the frozen food section of a South Dakota grocery store: “Mommy, does Jesus have a penis?” Intense thumb sucking while affirmative answer is processed. “Mommy, does Santa Claus have a penis?” That settles it. Had to cover any potential special cases to the general rule. You know.

One of her favorite stories is from just after Brother and my first briefing about reproductive biology, wherein I holler from the backyard, “Mommy, Brother is kicking me in the uterus. Make him stop!”

Well, now that someone actually is kicking me in the uterus, frequently, at totally unexpected moments, that shrill complaint seems…well…hilarious. Thinking of calling her today with this pronouncement:

Mooooooooom, someone is kicking me in my uterus. But it’s kind of cute, so don’t make it stop!

Look, blog, all I’m saying is that you’re pressure I don’t need.

I simply can’t be marginally interesting even half the time, let alone daily.

I’m busy with filling out papers and running all over town for physican’s reports and getting freaking painful PPD injections so I can hang at the preschool with my kid until he gets used to things; I have to polish a 25 page article then cut it to a 15-minute talk (good luck with that one, Captain Garrulous); I have to take a 32-page schlock-fest and make into a 40-page example of my best erudition and then into an awesome 25-page article; I have to plan holiday crapola and travel whosiewhatsis; and I have to figure out how to replace at least half of Peanut’s Halloween stash, because today it was simply magnetic, and the kid will notice. He pours out the whole stash on my bed every morning at dawn, with “mommy, you don’t have to get up, but can you help me pick my candy for today” because I stupidly put a two-piece a day limit and now he’s having this crappy candy for breakfast every day and will be until January. At least. Unless he notices the dearth of nougaty and caramely pieces (kind of sounds like an order of nuns) and calls me out, in which case there’s gonna be a serious meeting about how I’m the Mommy and if I’m gonna blog, I need to mainline sugar, else have nothing to say.

Or at least nothing to say so quickly. Or without proofreading.

Oh, readers, the heavens are on my side today.

Peanut is being adorable.
Snickers, the baby, is being silly.
Long walk resulted in a happy child. Continuation of long walk resulted in errands being completed. Further continuation of long walk resulted in an hour of self-entertained playground operations and a coffee milkshake for me. Continuation of long walk resulted in observation of road work AND a tractor climb for Peanut. Yay water district workers.

Exceedingly long walk rendered me unable to rant at the lazy postal worker or the crappy drivers. And made me even more obsequious in my friendly waves to drivers who stop for us at crosswalks. You people rock.

Peanut has decided he loves spinach. Three meals a day he has raw spinach, with varying dipping sauces. I don’t recognize this kid, but he’ll be strong to the finich.

And Houston, we have preschool.

Paperwork underway, we may begin as early as next week.

Universe, shut the heck up! You’re more awesome than the quantum physicists had me believe!

Please don’t tell anyone who is more than 5 months pregnant, nor my two dear, sweet friends who carried and delivered twins that I said this, but great galloping ghosts, I don’t remember having a 5 month old fetus feeling so damned BIG. I swear I’m more uncomfortable now than I was at 8 months last time. As I said, though, don’t tell anyone whose uterus is, or has been, bigger than a cantaloupe. A really, really, big cantaloupe.

While we’re on that, why do they measure pregnancy milestones in fruit and vegetables? For heaven’s sake, telling me something is as long as a banana or a carrot is just plain stupid. Come with me to the store, you lameass lazy writers, and show me which banana. Do you mean that baby carrot or one of the eight thousand other sizes carrots come in? Why not tell me that my 9 inch fetus is about the length of 9 consecutive big lines on a ruler? Idiots.

The Brits understand. When I sought websites in proper English, hoping they might in terms other than produce, I found their measurements are way more reassuring. 360g?! Holy crow, that’s enormous, right?. 360 of anything is big. No wonder I feel like I swallowed a soccer ball. And 27cm? That’s…ah, hell, I wish we had converted to metric so I’d have some damned idea how long that is, but it sounds just huge.

But then, the Brits said this: “You’re probably feeling quite comfortable these days. This, in fact, may be the most enjoyable time in your pregnancy. ” Ah, man, f— you! Is this going to be the f— you trimester? Cuz I thought that was the 19 weeks of incessantly barfing and exhaustion. No? This is the f— you trimester? I’m not sure. I kind of remember the next one being the exact opposite of a picnic, but what do I know? I had forgotten about feeling that I could never, ever eat again after one almond.

Maybe it’s the eyebrows little Fetalanine just grew, or something, but I am just not large enough to accommodate any more growth.

Or explain jokes about phenylalanine. If you don’t get them, ask the Brits. They explain everything so well.

Time ran a piece last year on a wonderful, loving family pulled even closer together by Fragile X syndrome. The article is interesting in part because it shows how one astute physician can notice a pattern and push genetic disease research forward by huge leaps.

There’s a lot of recent information on this disease, and the research into Fragile X is at the forefront of our understanding of autism. Carriers of the genetic difference are also subject to a host of medical issues that trouble families who don’t even know they carry the gene.

Look into it. Get involved. Support research.

P: Happy Halloween!
Stranger with candy: Oh, what a great costume. Choose a piece of candy.
P: Can I have two?
Swc: Sure!
M: [silently] damn you, neighbor!
P: Thanks! Happy Halloween!
Swc: Bye.
P: Hope you have fun. Bye. I love you!

Just about died with joy at every single house. Cutest of all cute peas, he wanted to go up to the house by himself. He pushed the button, knocked twice, and stepped back, like each door were an elevator. He only told two people he loved them, because that last line is what he says to Dad every morning when he leaves and to anyone who calls and wants to talk to him on the phone.

So it was an awesome night. Much fun. One boy in spider jammies, vampire vest, mardi gras necklace, stuffed ghost tucked into vest, cowboy hat, and construction goggles.

Small beef: Neighbors, please, could *one* of you give out toys or play-dough or crayons or something instead of candy. Come on. One house with a dentist and toothbrush, maybe? One spider ring or yo-yo or plastic skeleton? Please?