This week, like every other, there are many subjects about which I could write. For example, I could write about Hamas and Israel lobbing missiles at each other (again). About the Venezuelan troops approaching Colombia because Colombian troops entered Ecuador earlier in the week. About the underground vault that is being built in Svalbard, Norway to safeguard hundreds of thousands of plant species against disasters like climate change and chemical and nuclear war. On brighter notes, I could write about Drew Barrymore donating $1m to the World Food Program, about opposition parties in Kenya giving power sharing a go, or about the still-interesting race between Obama and Clinton in the U.S.

Yet, I choose to write about my life with my baby (again). Ho hum. Compared to all that, it sure does seem simple. However, the fact is, my life with baby is a pretty big part of my life. So can I really avoid writing about it for the sake of feeling grand? Nah. Besides, there are plenty of other people writing about the above, and maybe the following will resonate in ways I can’t imagine (she writes, hopefully).

So. One thing you should know before getting into this post is that my baby, AKA “the hobbit” (so called because he is small, eats frequently with gusto, and has a generous, hobbit-like demeanor; not, as some have guessed, because he is hairy) really likes cleaning floors. I mean he REALLY likes cleaning floors. With big brooms, dust brooms, wet mops, dry mops, sponges, cloths, sticks, hammers, hair brushes, tooth brushes, whatever. He simply loves the movement. The sweeping of his arm back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The other day, I got a report from his day care teacher that said he’d spent part of his afternoon “cleaning the floor with the brush.” I had to laugh. That’s my baby! I’ve tried to figure out what it indicates developmentally, and maybe one of you readers will be able to illuminate this for me, but really, I don’t much care, because the fact is, sweeping makes the guy happy. It has for months and months, so much so that when my mom visited way back in October, she was inspired to buy him his very own, very attractive, very very zebra-striped broom, brush and dustpan set (which he LOVES). He is very focused when he’s cleaning. Very purposeful. He can do it for a half hour at a time, sometimes longer. Huffing and puffing as he maneuvers the big broom around tight corners or uses the tiny sponge to conquer the expanse of the kitchen floor. And I love watching him go at it. It’s great.

So, now that you know that, you should also know that we keep his zebra broom set behind a door just off the kitchen, at the top of the back stairway, of which the hobbit is afraid (because it is dark, steep and yes, a little scary).

And now that you know that, I can begin.

Starting in my teens, I spent a lot of time with children. I babysat often, worked at a day camp, played with my friends’ kids and spent a lot of time with my nieces and nephews (of which there are 8; 8 unique little creatures). From these experiences, I formed a couple of theories about babies and children, one of which says that they almost always understand what is happening or being said to them, they just take about 40% longer than adults to react. Taking this a step further, I concluded (based on very scientific observations, of course) that because most of us adults are usually in a hurry, we often fail to account for this extra time and consequently cause a lot of frustration for both parties.

I mention this theory as a lead-in to a sort of confession, a sort of public admittance that the other day I almost forgot it, and consequently, almost fell into a whole lot of frustration. Fortunately, I came to my senses just at the brink of a real power struggle, about which I’m still feeling a big Phew.

Here is what happened: The hobbit had just finished his dinner, and while I did some cleaning up and some snacking on the bits he hadn’t eaten (gross-sounding I know, but this is a confession, so full disclosure seems especially important), the hobbit walked to the door of the back stairway, got down on his hands and knees, and crawled with extreme caution to his zebra broom. Then he carefully dragged it into the kitchen. He’d never approached the back stairs this way, so I was a little surprised.

Anyway, as I snacked and tidied and listened to the BBC, the hobbit did his sweeping thing. What a merry pair we were. For a while.

Probably twenty minutes passed before I announced that it was time to stop cleaning and head downstairs for a bath. The hobbit looked at me earnestly while I spoke then went back to sweeping. This, I expected. After all, my announcement had come because I’d been watching the clock. The hobbit does not watch the clock. He just lives, which is great, if a little unpractical at times, and a pretty good argument for the existence of parents. Anyway, a few minutes later, I crouched down beside him and said, “I know you’re having a ball here babe, but you’ll be able to have a ball tomorrow, too. You’ll be able to sweep up a storm in the morning if you want to. But now it’s time for bath.” I smiled. I put my hand on the broom and applied a little pulling pressure.

The hobbit tightened his grip and applied a little pulling pressure of his own.

Uh oh, I thought, and then I took a deep breath. I said, “Sorry darlin, I know you want to keep sweeping, but really, it is time to stop,” and again I pulled at the broom, and again, he pulled back. My smile got tight, my tone a little less cheerful, I pulled at the broom. He pulled back, started to cry, and began moving toward the back stairs. I took the broom away. He threw himself down and pounded his forehead on the floor (as one does). My patience was just about tapped at this point, but then, suddenly, I remembered my little theory, and it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I had overlooked something. Maybe, just maybe, he was trying to return the broom to where he’d found it. After all, hadn’t I been trying to instill this virtue in him ever since he started moving things from one place to another?

I tapped him on the shoulder and offered him the broom, then waited.

He stopped wailing and looked up at me. I said, “Listen little one. If you are going to put the broom back where you found it, you can do that, no problem. But if you sweep just one centimeter more of this floor, I’m going to take the broom away no matter how loudly you cry.”

I waited.

He stood up and reached for the broom. Just for good measure, I repeated the terms of the deal before relinquishing it entirely. I was prepared for anything you understand, especially the unpleasant task of taking the broom away and carrying the very heavy, very strong hobbit kicking and screaming downstairs. But once again the theory proved its merits: With great sense of purpose, he took hold of the broom, dragged it to the back stairs, got down onto his onto his hands and knees and put it back where it belonged. Then, steadying it, he crawled back out, threw a terrified glance down the stairs, and came running into my arms.

That’s my baby!

(Okay, so I haven’t offered you a solution to the Palestine-Israel conflict. Or a penetrating analysis of the US presidential campaign. But this is my life these days, and this is my blog. Maybe next week I’ll go to Norway to check out that seed vault. Or maybe I’ll just get out a little more. Until then, happy living.)