I’ve been humming the song “Let’s Get Physical” this week to myself every instance that Sean swings his hand back and delivers a welting blow to my face. His theme song. It’s getting a little old, but I can’t think of any better way to squash my knee-jerk frustration and fury, and manage the consequences with a level-head. There’s nothing like singing Olivia Newton-John to make the situation seem that much more absurd and silly.

I know this is just a phase. It’s a behavior that’s filling a gap in his communication tools until he’s verbally and emotionally more mature. It’s the only way that he’s figured out how to express extreme frustration and disappointment to me. And it’s only me (Pat very rarely), and no one else that he hits. I expect that’s because no one else says NO to him with the frequency I do.

I really have done a lot of thinking and reading about how to manage it. I’ve tried talking, time outs, showing how sad and hurt I am, being dispassionate, disengaging, using my MOMMY voice. I even carried a drum around with me for a week so that I could pull it out at a second’s notice and tell him to hit his drum, not Mommy. I talk about how wonderful it is when he uses his gentle hands and gives me sweet spontaneous hugs. I am trying. Really. And it’s not that I’m confusing the kid. I’m working on scientific principle here and trying an idea for a few weeks before determining it’s not working (this has been going on for months). Taking a page from my brother’s book: consistency is the key.

The only thing that used to work is to redirect and diffuse. I know exactly the situations that cause him to hit. I see them coming from a mile away. But he’s a bright and determined kid. Redirection really has stopped working. And because there’s a build up to the situation where I’ve asked him to stop doing something, he’s usually on to me before I can redirect. He knows that I’m trying to dupe him. He’s just too smart for that anymore. And he knows what he wants, Mommy be damned.

He actually hit me hard enough to cause my nose to bleed today while we were at the playground. He was trying to scale a tall metal ladder, but kept throwing fits because I was holding onto his waist to spot him. I gave him several chances to do something else or to get used to me holding him. I used my happy, encouraging voice to help him up the ladder again. But he kept throwing fits and almost falling from the top, so I picked him up and off the ladder. The reaction was instantaneous - he was anticipating it and got me smack in the nose. I dropped him to the ground (after going down on one knee). I caught a woman standing up from her park bench in alarm out of the corner of my eye. I wiped my nose and scooped him up calmly and put him in his stroller. Once he was restrained I got eye to eye with him (out of kicking range) and said how much he had hurt me and that he needed a time out to think about how sad it makes me when he hits. I know he was frustrated and sad, but hitting is unacceptable. I turned him towards the fence and walked behind him.

She handed me a tissue as she approached - a very nice smile on her face. More sympathetic than judgmental, thank goodness. We joked about the terrible twos and how nice it would be to get to an age when logic and discussion can be used. She was complementary of Sean and my “sense of humor” - I assume she was referring to my sighs of exasperation and the deep counted breaths that I was taking. I didn’t feel embarrassed - just sad. Sad and tired of this.

I’m tired of being the bad guy. I’m tired of being used, abused and bruised. Poor Patrick will get home and need a hug and my only response is “Don’t touch me.” I don’t care if it’s a hug, a hand shake or a kiss. My body has become a punching bag. My personal space has dissolved into a wriggling mass of toddler knees and elbows as Sean plays “climb all over Mommy” all day long. How did 50’s housewives manage in their perfect day dresses?

A little more reading, a new tactic to try. I’m going to focus on being as compassionate and loving as I can, while portraying the ‘no hitting rule’ as a moral imperative, not a Mommy mandate. “I’m so sorry you’re sad and frustrated. Isn’t it upsetting? It’s okay to be mad. But the rule says we cannot hit. There’s nothing I can do to change that. I know that makes you angry…” You get the idea. It’s going to be a stretch. Because, to be honest with you, all I want to do is scream right back at him. ‘Cause, man, that kid’s got a wicked left hook. What’s your knee-jerk reaction to being smacked? Fear, anger, retribution? When my eyes are watering and my nose is running, the last thing I want to do is smile.

I think I should be looking into boxing scholarships…

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Originally uploaded by Kelly Dwyer

It’s amazing this kid’s brain doesn’t explode from the amount of developmental leaps that he makes every day. This week has been all about pronunciation and communication. We’re getting closer to actually understanding most of his close to 200+ word vocabulary (and growing).

Sean officially retired his last sign this week. He learned how to say “Thank you” rather than sign it. Signing was a wonderful tool. Those 10-15 signs got us through that really difficult period when he was desperate to tell us what he needed/wanted but couldn’t verbalize. It took me a while to figure out what new word Sean was chanting at me all day. Keekoo? Keekoo? What is that? And then the lightbulb went off. Thank you! Keekoo! I got a little sad realizing that he wasn’t going to be signing anymore. And then I realized my son was saying “Thank you” unprompted. Many repetitions of the happy dance ensued.

Patrick was adamant that I blog that Sean has officially strung two words together. It was a momentous occasion; one that we should write in his baby book and cherish forever, he says. Of course, Sean’s first sentence would have to be “Momma fart!” Thanks kid. Thanks for that. Now let’s have a discussion about the meaning of tact.

It’s also been interesting to watch Sean revisit old words that he first learned many months ago and adjust their pronunciation. Melmo has become Elmo; Awwww? has become All done. Oorrrr has become Oranges. All within this past week. It’s been a busy few days for that little brain.

Ask me how we’re sleeping. No really. I dare you.

There’s nothing like watching a New York movie to give me that warm, reminiscent feeling of home like a kick to the head. I could count the number of scenes on one hand in Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist where I didn’t recognize where they were in the city. Everywhere else smacked me right in the face with memories of breakfast at 2 am, cocktails at 3 am, bands that weren’t worth a crap, music that moved my soul. It was like watching my college existence flash in front of my eyes. Veselka, Bowery Ballroom, Port Authority, transvestite lounge shows, Pennsylvania Station, Mercury Lounge.

You want to know the kicker though? The part that made me suck in a breath and grab Patrick’s arm? I couldn’t even get anything to come out of my mouth more coherent than, “Oh my god. It’s…it’s…its.” And it was. He knew it right away, too. It’s our deli. The deli on 10th and Broadway. The Deli Around The Corner.

The intrepid heros of the movie park their van in front of Digital Society on the corner of 10th and Broadway, in front of NYU’s Brittany dorm, while our heroine runs inside the deli to find she’s just missed her friend (who managed to puke in the ice cream case - I always did love to get a pint of Ben & Jerry’s out of there). The interior looked a little clean and far too bright on film, but those strange racks of tiny packets of vitamin boosts and asian bubble gum still covered the wall behind the register. The buffet looked just as unappetizing as ever. But I remember so well those early morning/late night runs with Patrick around the corner. Sometimes Jared would join us, sometimes Sayer. I’d get a cinnamon raisin bagel, toasted on an enormous industrial metal monolith, slathered with cream cheese. My coffee, light and sweet. Patrick’s, black, extra large.

We’d usually get a coffee for Pops, a gentleman of indeterminate age or background, save his African heritage. He would stand in front of the absurd art installations on the ground floor of our dorm, looming behind him as though they were lording their privilege and poor taste over his homelessness.

It still hurts, seeing New York as an outsider. I have this primal need to go back to New York and lick the door handle of that deli and shout, “MINE!” MY deli. MY street. MY memories. Who are you to go and film there? You don’t have those experiences. You didn’t live your life there. (Or maybe you did. Please forgive my need to whiz on my territory.)

I want Sean to see New York through wondrous eyes first. To look out at the skyline and breath in the smell of the city. To feel invulnerable, to feel alive. To pull from that inherent urban energy that infuses every light, every street, every sidewalk. Maybe Pat and I should reading him some NYU admissions literature at bedtime. Hey, it’s my right as a parent to live vicariously through my kid.

Beyond the East, the sunrise,
Beyond the West, the sea,
And East and West the wanderthirst
Will not let me be.
-Gerald Gould

We’re moving back to the East Coast this summer. To be specific, back to Northern Virginia.

I’ve been divided lately about how to treat this blog entry. In many ways, this blog serves as a record of Patrick’s and my (and Sean’s) lives together. Our choices, our experiences, our loves, our frustrations. A large part of me wants to simply make the announcement and be done with it. But at the same time, I acknowledge the catharsis that sharing one’s reasoning behind a decision can bring.

I find myself becoming concerned, however, that sharing our very private thought processes may in some ways diminish the importance of this decision. That outside of ourselves, you, dear reader, may not be able to see the same reasons and logic behind our justifications.

The nuanced complexities of our reasoning are far too laden with emotional turmoil to list out in detail. But there are a few salient points that I’d like to share. We don’t blog about our jobs, so trust us when we say that we’ve taken them into the greatest consideration. And the other point that I will share in brief is my recent and powerful desire to once again be close to my family.

Patrick and I are lucky to be in a place in life where we are significantly mobile. Home for Sean at this age is wherever Momma and Daddy are. Home for Patrick and I is wherever each other may be. We are attached to very few of our tangible belongings. A favorite pastime of ours is to think about our possessions and make a list of what we would take with us in an emergency. It’s always a motivator to take one more box to Goodwill, or sell one more piece of furniture on Craigslist.

We have tried (and somewhat succeeded) in living a lifestyle that has not overwhelmed us with anchors. We both consider this a positive lifestyle, but we see the psychological abnormalities and concerns with living outside of a culture, a society, a community.

And so, we are beckoned onward. I cannot express how deeply we are drawn into this phase of transition. We thrive in these in between spaces, these fissures in stability and rootedness. I don’t know why.

I remember exactly what I was wearing 10 years ago today. I had gone on a bit of a shopping spree at home the day before I was going to return to NYC. I packed up all of my black shirts, my jeans, my chunky boots and changed into crisp khakis and a button up white shirt, babydoll short sleeves.

I walked into the dorm well past 11 o’clock at night, having missed a great deal of the Saint Patrick’s day celebrations, stuck in the long bus ride up from DC. Patrick took one look at me and practically turned the other way to run. This certainly wasn’t the girl that he’d spent the entire past week on the computer with day and night, chatting about everything and nothing. And this certainly wasn’t the girl who stayed up all night, sitting in the hallway with him, debating the true nature of black holes, irish literature and overclocking celeron processors.

Coming back to New York that night felt different. It felt as if we finally had a chance to figure out why neither of us could stay away from each other. We had spent fall semester in wrestling matches of wit and spite, trying to determine if we really did hate one another. As Patrick so eloquently stated the other day, “It was touch or go there for a while.” Because, of course, he was the boy next door with more piercings that I had toes, and more hair colors than I had bras. And what was I? Well, I was the girl next door who knew what she wanted the moment she laid eyes on him.

A week or so later, we spent an afternoon browsing the Strand science fiction section together and drinking coffee at our favorite cafe on West 12th and Broadway. As we lay in that tiny twin sized bed, on his burgundy and blue flannel sheets, thankful for the rare privacy in a suite of 5 boys, Patrick sighed very deeply. His voice was almost surprised, tinged with wonderment. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I love you too. Happy Anniversary. May the next 10 years be filled with as much love as we filled the last 10 with.

Sean loves to read. He insists on sitting on his twin bed on the floor and pulling up the blankets over his legs to snuggle into the pillows behind him. Bear, Elmo and *insert parental unit here* must join him on the bed and read and read and read.

We’ve read constantly throughout the day for a long time, but now the activity is becoming a choreographed event of enormous proportions. So much so that I feel the need to put a moratorium on pre-nap and pre-bed reading. Once snuggled into his lovely corner of pillows and soft objects, Sean REFUSES to do anything else. Including nursing or going to sleep. I’m happy to take this as a point at which Sean is weaning from nap-time nursing. But I think that this has more to do with control and resistance than it does to weaning.

And in all honesty, I’m happy to sit with him for as much time as he wants. But his behavior close to naps always degrades into tantrums and tears at the slightest change in situation (i.e. Mommy needs to answer the phone). There’s little at that point to do other than just put him in his crib and let him scream. Which is really NOT the way that I’d ideally like to put him to sleep. He’s been a kid who gloriously goes to sleep for so long (after we worked so hard to make sleep time and nap time a nice quiet experience). I hate watching nap time fall into patterns of screaming and tantrums.

But the good thing about this all is that Sean READS, READS, and READS! Hooray!

Kelly: “Sean, can you say your name? Can you say Sean?”
Sean: “Sean!”
Kelly: “Yes! And can you say your name again?”
Sean, considering & brightly: “Me!”

Hehehe.

Sean attracted quite a crowd the other day at Tysons mall. Patrick and I were wandering around with the munchkin trying to find a new diaper bag amidst the throngs of consumers dying to spend their hard earned cash on whatever 75% off deals they could find. We all stopped for a much needed snack and found a corner of wall unoccupied where we could hover and eat.

Perhaps it was the sugar high of the lemonade, or the glorious taste-bud explosions after tasting Aunt Annie’s pretzels for the first time, but Sean began jumping about in pure delight. He jumped, bounced and boogied for several minutes - attracting a crowd of quite a few elderly women, Redskins linebackers, tweenie boppers, and pretzel makers. He took one rather large gulp of lemonade and decided to spin. And spin, and spin, and spin. Around and around the baby did go, and when he would stop, no one did know.

He finally planted his feet with a shrieking giggle and tried to stand still. But of course the world was spinning. He wobbled this way and that, back and forth across the floor, joining the crowd in their amused laughter. Finally, he spotted Mommy & Daddy and attempted to walk towards us like a drunk driver walking the line. He threw his head back to give me a goofy grin and looked down quickly…only to realize how close he was to the wall. With a WHACK he smacked into the wall and back down onto his butt.

The crowd went wild. He flashed them a 100 watt grin and took another bite of pretzel. If he could have bowed, he would have…with a flourish of course. Showman.