I will be the first to admit that I spoil Quinn rotten. He's my baby, my last child, and sometimes, arguably, the most precocious. I love to cuddle him, and hold him in my arms. When he asks to be carried, I oblige willingly. Every bump of his head or scrape on his finger/knee/arm can only be "healed" by Mommy's kiss. I love the heavy weight of his sweaty noggin on my shoulder in the middle of the night.
When he comes crying into my arms after being disciplined by Daddy, I gather him close and let him sob, while Daddy rolls his eyes at my display of weakness. The sight of the fat tears spilling from his and rolling down his cheeks tugs at my heart strings. The sound of his crying reduces me to jello each time.
Even with his temper tantrums, with flailing arms and jumping up and down to assert his anger - I find adorable. Of course, not in the moment. But when he's calm, and I reflect on his ability to fling his little body onto a flat surface and sob at a moment's notice - he's got the makings of a thespian with such dramatic flair.
There is no Mean Mommy where Quinn is concerned.
But that is about to change.
Quinn is almost 28 months. It's time to get serious about the potty training (see related post), doing away with the sippy cup, and losing the soother. We may have to go cold turkey.
It's going to be tough for Mommy. Not so much because of the tears and crying that will surely ensue. But because she's met her match in a tiny being who will use Mommy's own words and twist them to satisfy his own agenda.
Mommy: Hey Quinn, are you a big boy? Are you Mommy's big boy now?
Quinn: Yes.
Mommy: Good. Then give Mommy the soother. Soothers are for babies. Not big boys.
Quinn: I want the soother.
Mommy: No, they're for babies.
Quinn: Mommy, I'm baby.
With that, he grabs the soother, pops it in his mouth, smiles and cuddles into me.
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