I'm not a gushy lovey-dovey type. I didn't talk baby talk to R.J. when he was tiny, and I still don't mince words. On Monday night, he threw the ultimate tantrum. And he slapped me. I didn't respond in kind. Instead, I told him he has choices. He can either (1) choose to throw the fit; or (2) stop. If he chooses to throw the fit, for each minute he screams, I will take away a privilege. First on my list: Gymnastics on Tuesday.
Eyes wide, he stared at me. He wondered if his wonderful, sweet mommy (the mommy who kisses boo-boos, and answers every tummy trouble with sympathy and Mylicon) could possibly be serious. Apparently, I have my bluff. He stopped screaming, and he apologized. Later, we snuggled it out in the rocking chair.
I'm pretty matter of fact with R.J. on lots of things. We talk about why some people ride scooters in Wal-Mart. (politically correctly, of course). We talk about why we don't talk about pottying in public. This doesn't stop him from shouting, "I peed!" when we walk back into church. But, given that he peed on the floor during the sermon in the sanctuary on Sunday, I think the gig is up regardless.
So, last Sunday night, when we all piled into the big bed to watch The Cosby Show (are there any sitcoms that could ever match Cosby?), it shouldn't surprise me at what escaped from my little man's mouth. Out of the mouths of children. Kids say the darndest things. And all that.
My precious two-year old potty trainer, looked at me with heavy eyelids and said, "Mom-MY, My Huggie's jacked up."
Perhaps I should revisit the idea of baby talk, at least on some levels.
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