Let Me Call Him Baby

Mommies have a lot of little jobs: wiping little bottoms, filling little cups, scraping little plastic-y puddles of cereal off of tile floors, kissing little boo-boos. Taken individually, the little jobs aren't so much. All at once, they're overwhelming. And if you add in the children that actually created the mommy position, those little things can be downright impossible. Other little things add up too. One little timeout, a little impatient sigh, and a little sharp word suddenly become one big meltdown--for mommy and little one. I've given up on being perfect. I've given up on being an "A" student. I aim for the little things. Recently, I made a little change with a big, surprising impact on my little man.

I've called my kids a lot of names (not the bad kind): RJ and GiGi for starters. And there are the baby nicknames like Yoda Baby, Boogie, Pooh, and Stinker. There are the ego boosts--Rockstar and Superstar. The "usuals"--Bubba, Sissy (I kind of live in the south, cut me some slack), Little Woman, Little Man, Brother Man, and Sister.  And, of course, the current terms of endearment: Sweet Bean and Baby Girl.

Someday Sweet Bean will swear he never answered to such ridiculousness. But he totally does.

One name, however, speaks more to RJ than any other. Simple, to the point, I call him Baby. It works like abracadabra on my little man. Ask to eat his supper, "RJ, eat some chicken," and he'll nibble a corner, stare me down, drop his fork, his cup, his napkin, and his plate all while sticking his fingers down his throat trying to gag himself. (Did I brag about this child's table manners last week? Erg.). But call him Baby, "Baby, eat some chicken," and he's eating nuggets with a fork, dabbing his chin with his napkin, offering to pass me the ketchup, and busing the table.

You catch more flies with honey I suppose.

I'm not particularly patient with RJ. He's four, and he's the kind of four that wants to know why he can't   eat goldfish for breakfast and why mommy's car is white and why there's carpet on the floor. He'll see an empty jar of apple juice, look me in the eye and ask, "Mommy, can I have apple juice?" It is exhausting. Add to that a propensity to want to knock his baby sister over and blow raspberries on her belly and a strong desire to poop his pants just so mommy will change him, and well, you've got RJ. He's the four year old whose biggest concern when moving was whether the change table was coming with us. It's pink. It is his sister's. He does not care. I try to be patient, but sometimes he gets the best of me. I've yelled. I've said things I shouldn't. Little disagreements have turned into tantrums leaving both mommy and RJ in timeout.

I have found the cure: just let me call him baby. RJ struggled when GiGi was born. He still does. "Am I your baby?" he asks me often. "Did you want a little boy just like me?"

And so, in recent weeks, I've taken to calling him Baby. It works. He gives me the word's biggest hug every morning when I leave for work. He gives me sugars. We're still in the midst of Lovefest 2012. And all because of a kind word. We all know we shouldn't lose patience with our children. Anyone who says they never  have is either lying or has access to much better pharmaceuticals than I do. Kids are kids. It's their job to make us crazy. It's our job to find their love language and use it.

Sweet Bean knows I love him. He also knows that I would prefer that he poop in the potty, learn to dress himself, and eat some chicken nuggets every once in a while without my begging. He knows it's his job to press my buttons. He also knows it's my job to love him unconditionally. And with one little change in our routine, I've found the key to his little man heart. "Just let me call you Baby," I tell him. "Let me take care of you." "Baby" fixed his skinned ankle and made him feel all better. "Baby" got us through church on Sunday with nearly no fits. And, "Baby" gets me out the door most mornings without tears.

One little change, and my screaming Rockstar becomes just RJ--a little boy who bites his finger nails and worries that he may have bit his daddy just a little too hard during their wrestling match (He did, but daddy will survive. And if it hurts too bad, I'll call him Baby too. I'm pretty sure the effects are universally applicable to little boys and their daddies.). Just that one term of endearment, and my Bubba is the best big brother in the whole world, watching that GiGi doesn't tumble into the fireplace wall or try to eat one more piece of lint off the carpet.

The little things are what matter so much in a little one's little world. I'm glad I've found RJ's abracadabra. He deserves that from his mommy. All kids do.