Hickory Dickory Dock...and the Art of Mom-jitsu

For months now, I've been completely convinced that we have a large beaver chewing on our house. I kept hearing what sounded like something big making gnawing sounds in strategic places just beyond our bedroom wall. The sounds seemed to come into play especially in the early morning or early dusk hours, and I confess, I didn't relish the idea of having a critter that sounded that big right next to my ear at night. Let's not even get to the "What if it chewed through?!" question, let's get straight to the "For crying out loud, cut it out!!!" ...Two days ago, I followed the noise to its source...this time it was just outside of Josh's window, so I was already eight-different kinds of spooked, and it didn't help that it seemed to be chewing at (my) chest level...and all I could think was "Oh My God, do they really grow beavers that big?!!! How did I get into my very own bad b-movie?! Where the heck do I find a pair of heels to run/twist my ankle falling in!" As it turned out, I had been badmouthing those "dam" varmints without just cause (ha, ha), because a flash of white and black bolted past the window just as I was about to look out. My audio Torquemada was nothing more than a brat of a woodpecker, who peeked out from behind a tree and (this I swear) grinned at me. As if realizing that I was still inside the house and therefore no real threat, the feathered twerp returned to its post on our siding and continued his attacks. He didn't go so far to stick his tongue out at me, but it sure as heck was implied.



That night, I faced an animal attack of a more sinister kind. Josh was asleep, with us, as usual...Jon had a rougher day than normal and was finally conking out. I was awake, also as usual...thrashing around, trying to get comfortable, removing Josh's foot from between my shoulder blades, my throat or occasionally, my belly button (apparently, it makes a good toe-hold...Who knew?). Sleep was coming, though. I could feel it...I allowed myself to be lulled...and then Koda decided to give me a helping paw. He had been jumping up and down from the bed several times...and at first I just chalked it up to the common occurrence of Jon kicking his fuzzy butt onto the floor whenever Koda landed on Jon's legs...then I thought perhaps it's just general Koda weirdness...and I concentrated on conking out. Just as I began to breathe heavily and my lashes lowered, something hit me in the eye. For a moment I was too stunned to do anything, and then, damned if that thing didn't begin to hop...Koda, a cat who can quote chapter and verse on all things Stupid and "WTF!", had decided to chase a mouse up onto our bed, and more importantly onto my eye. He then tried to follow his intended quarry, and I'm fairly certain the yell/scream/howl that erupted from me happened at that precise moment when his claws hit my face.



Between the Joys of Kodama the blankety-blank cat, ego-maniacal woodpeckers, and the omni-presence of every telemarketer and their mother lately (No! I am not a supporter of Teamsters to Stop Global Warming. I am not interested in receiving literature from the Young Republican Dyslexic Agoraphobic Cheerleaders for McCain, not even the special swimsuit issue. And no, my husband does not want the swimsuit issue either -- *pointed glare at my husband, repeating myself in a slow growl* No, Jon, you do not want the swimsuit issue either. Yes, I've already voted....Goooo-Ah-WAYyyyyyy!!!), "Napping the Boy" has been an ever more difficult pursuit. Once he's down, he blessedly sleeps for nearly three hours, but the getting, that's the trick. Apparently, my mother has mastered the art of just holding him close and scratching his back with the tips of her fingernails and after a few minutes (or so she claims) he is out, all sweet and innocent, cute and drooly. For Jon and I, getting him out, either at nap time or bedtime, means one or both of us must lie down with him (because of course, he doesn't want to crash out in his room, alone, all by himself, with nothing but dozens of toys between him and "whatever") and gently hold him while he proceeds to thrash about in an effort to break every bone in our heads. Jon and I have perfected the ancient martial arts of Dad-kido and Mom-jitsu during these lovely sessions. While simultaneously bending our own necks backwards at a 90 degree angle to protect our faces, we use the trick of holding him just enough that he can't hurt us and just enough that he can't damage himself...while loosening up our arms so that he doesn't totally freak out. In this way, while we cannot claim that he is in anyway amused with the proceedings (amusement doesn't actually enter into it, as he is, erm, rather tee-ed off ), we wear him down and THEN he conks out a little while later, all sweet and innocent, cute and drooly. As we are on the receiving end, it feels like we are wrestling a greased elephant seal, but he suffers no ill-effects, I promise you. Once asleep, he snuggles in close and breathes whuppered little baby breath onto our necks and looks as close to an angel as God made 'em. We snuggle close for a bit, than carefully extract ourselves to go in search of some Advil for all of our newly acquired pinched nerves.




It occurs to me that Josh simply doesn't have enough toys. I say this because on rare occasions, I can still walk in a reasonably straight line through our living room without seriously dislocating a knee. (Yes, Greats and Grands, I am being facetious...this is not an invitation to go out and buy up ToysRUs. Don't make me break out the whip and chair, people. ) Recalling the wit and wisdom of my dad, known here as "Grandpa Dave or Papa Dave", I am reminded that he has often commented that he had children to have a cheap form of labor...or at least that was Dad's favorite quip before Mom would glare at him. (It may also have been his favorite quip before all five of us got our driver's licenses, the car insurance, phone and electric bills, too...)



At any rate, I decided to put this theory to the test. When Josh helps me pick up his toys really, really fast, I'll pull out the shop vac and he gets to sweep. You do not know what a cheap thrill it is to see a two-year old whip around with a sweeper hose. I merely point out a conspicuously crumbed area, and he goes to it with a determination that could wear down steel wool. Every speck gets an enthusiastic shout, "Yay! Crumbs!!!" and he has decided that all of his rubber ducks (and I mean ALL, as in ALL nine of them) must learn the art of sweeping too. He shows each duck the on-button and then carefully shows them the nozzle, taking great care to explain to each duck that "it's ok, duck" -- the sweeper will not eat them. Twenty minutes later, I have a decent looking room, and it's time to turn off the machine...Of course, that last part never goes well... if he had the option, he'd sweep until the shop vac overheated, exploded, and was worn to nothing but a nub, and believe me, he has tried.




I find myself intrigued with the possibilities of further toddler domestication...I wonder if I can teach him how to clean a gutter...hmmm. Knowing Josh, he'd rather hang off the roof by one hand, whipping his cowboy hat around with the other, yelling, "Whoo-Hoo!" all of the time. Can't see the Grands and Greats approving of that. Maybe not gutters then...maybe just some routine plumbing and car maintenance...



I can see it now, Josh in the garage, with his Curious George sippy cup parked above the headlights, a diaper wipe slung out of his hip pocket, the hood open, and my son turning to me saying, "Mommy. Needa Oil. Needa Tire-sss. Cost bout um... El'phant, maybe El'phant! Cookieeee! Shoulda Ride -a Tracto!"



Hrm...I may need to rethink that particular career path after all.