I have a lot of good times with the Hobbit, but not every day is filed with bliss.  Some days, like this one, are downright unpleasant.  Nothing goes smoothly.  He fights everything.  He insists on doing annoying things like putting lotion all over the table and rubbing sausage in his hair.  He lies on the floor asking to have his diaper changed about a half hour after I just changed it, shouts when I suggest we wait a little while, then gets up after I’ve removed the diaper but before I’ve replaced it, thus risking an “accident”, which I dread, not only because I’ll have to clean it up, but also because lately the Hobbit becomes hysterical over messes.

On days like these, I’m increasingly filled with self-doubt.  I flip flop.  One minute I say to myself, Fine, whatever, let him run around without a diaper, what’s the big deal.  But then I envision him standing before a puddle of his own pee crying, “MESS!  MOMMA!  MESS!”  And I know the shouting will get on my nerves more quickly than it should.  And I worry not just about a set back in potty training, but also about the onset of some neuroses about the potty in general.  And I think about my own total lack of interest in cleaning pee off the floor and I say to myself, Dammit!  Who’s in charge here?  Put the stupid diaper on already!  And to the Hobbit I say, Listen!  We need to put the diaper on because I don’t want a mess and neither do you.  And  my voice is too stern, and the crying and kicking and shouting begin.  And my temper flares.  And I grow afraid of the difference between my strength and his.  So I take deep breaths until the diaper is on.  And I find a calm voice.  And the Hobbit finds some calm within his little self, too.  Then I lift him gently and he says to me, “Hug, Momma?  Hug?”  And we hug.  And then we move on to something else, a bit weary, a bit worn.

Days like these are days like these because of an accumulation of moments like these.  Because of an accumulation of battles and encounters that feel like failures.  After the diaper incident, I say to myself, What we need is to get out of the house.  Recognizing that we are not feeling our best, I decide we should go for a drive to the supermarket – something we generally enjoy.  But when I try to get him dressed, another fight ensues, this time over putting on his jeans.  Then, when we go to the garage, I find that I can’t access his carseat with the car parked the way it is.  So I set him free in the car so I can safely back out.  But then we have a fight over putting him in his carseat.  He kicks, he screams, he cries; he makes his body rigid as a post while I  push and struggle and want to scream myself.  I try to keep cool, but at this point – I’ll admit it – I want to shake him.  I want to really exert some of that disproportionate strength of mine.  It’s an ugly feeling, and luckily, I don’t pursue it.

Instead, I step away and close the door.  I look up at the sky while the Hobbit rages inside the car’s back seat, and I try to think of what do to.  Then I tell myself not to think, to just be, and I force myself to inhale and exhale deeply.  Eventually, the Hobbit stops screaming, and I open the door and pick him up.  We hug as I carry him down to his room and, having decided that what he needs is sleep, I get him ready for bed.  He starts to fight again but I put him in bed anyway and over his crying I tell him I love him.  I kiss his forehead and tell him to get some sleep.  I shut the door, and come upstairs.  And as I force myself to write, feeling rage at just the sound of his whiny cry, I hope, hope, hope that he stops soon.

He does, and soon after that he falls alseep.  It is a small reward for both of us, and I’m grateful.  But I tell ya, I sure wish we could just bypass days like these.