First it was the grey Tonka shirt from Target. I got one for L and one for M before we went to Maine (as well as matching green Tonka shirts). M was happy about both, but during the course of our vacation, he became fixated on the grey one. To the point that he would wear it for days until it was undeniably dirty and I had to peel it off his writhing, screaming body. Cue the terrible, snotty tantrum which usually resulted in us cajoling L to give his grey shirt to M until we could get M's shirt washed and dried. At first, F said he felt M had to learn to wait for his shirt to be laundered, but by the time we got back to VA, he said, "Maybe you should stop by Target when you get a chance and get him a new grey shirt." So I did.
Then, of course, M turned the tables on us. Actually, it was kind of my fault. I've been noticing that whenever L tells stories or sings, M is right there, repeating all the words he knows. Then I notice that M's obsessions follow the ebb and flow of L's obsessions. And L moved into his Army tank/cammo phase. Guess who followed him? It was kind of cute (I was the younger sister who was always following my older sis around, annoying her and copying, hoping against hope that some of her "cool"-ness would rub off on me. So it's funny to see it from an outside perspective...it is so natural for the older brother to be the first hero the younger ones really ever have.
I finally got around to cleaning out our closets last weekend which is where I found Liam's (or Connor's) old cammo PJ shirt at the bottom of a storage bin. Happiness and joy for Lukey! We found a cammo shirt to match his cammo pants! Hooray! Mommy is awesome again, right? Not exactly...I got really busy and forgot about that shirt until F found it on L's floor and of course, put it on L for bedtime. He was ecstatic...until the twins came in for their nightly round of hugs and kisses and I complimented L's Army shirt in M's hearing. M was on Day 2 of his grey shirt (no visible stains) and was quite happy until he realized that he did not have an Army shirt to match L's. Which he needed. Now. As in, this very moment.
This led M to have a fit that ended in: A. Hyperventilation, B. Tears, C. Him ripping his grey shirt off over his head and flinging it away into the corner repeatedly (until I finally got the message that no matter how many times I put it back on his body, he would fling it off again), D. Me taking his PJ pants off and putting his jean-like cammo trousers on him while, E. Fervently and sincerely pledging to find an Army shirt for him in the morning, no matter the cost or the trouble (think Daniel Day-Lewis vowing to rescue his lady in "Last of the Mohicans") and, finally, F. Mikey whimpering his shirt-less, cammo trouser wearing self to sleep, sucking his thumb and rubbing his nose with Blue Blankie for comfort. Whew! Not exactly a smooth night.
I thought he might forget a little in the morning. Nope. I couldn't head straight to Target, I had to cook breakfast, wash dishes, hang out the wash (to include both newly laundered grey Tonka shirts which now had been deemed utterly unacceptable), etc. So in the meantime I trotted out Luke's grey shirt, the green shirts, and several other cool truck/plane related shirts that M never gets to wear. I tried to make each choice seem as attractive as possible, using all manner of toddler boy-friendly adjectives to point out all the merits of each (think those weirdly mannequin-like models with the forced smiles on the Price is Right, complete with hand gestures). He was steadfast in his intention. Never wavered. His stand on the subject became clear, even to me: Army shirt or no shirt at all, Mama! That lead to the get-up he sports in these two pictures. Cammo pants, no shirt, dump truck baseball cap, and a broken plastic lawn mower. Never say we aren't a super classy family. You've seen our awesome fashion sense in action (Anna: cow suit, Mikey: redneck outfit, Luke: well, he's Luke, so I think the high point of his fashion history would be when he used to tote F's old cardboard Guinness 6 pack holders filled with his plastic tools around the neighborhood).
It all ended happily enough...I found the last 3 cammo shirts in size 4/5 at Target (on sale! for $3 each, hooray!)...they were promptly donned with great enthusiasm (Anna wore the cousins' old shirt) and everyone spent about 2 days wearing cammo shirts around everywhere we went. We looked like either a family who spends too much time at Bass ProShop or a family on their first foray into the woods to get dinner. Not exactly the look I was going for, especially at the awards ceremony at F's work where the General from VT handed out plaques and appreciation to all our Hometown Heroes. Oh well. (I don't actually care about this stuff, but I feel I ought to, so I kind of end up feeling weird about it)
Anyhoo...my real concern is this: we have family portraits coming up and M is seriously refusing to wear anything but the Army shirt (and sometimes he says no to pants entirely). You cannot reason with this kid. You cannot even really bargain with him. It is Army or Bust. If M wears his cammo shirt, L will want to as well. If he was feeling magnanimous and might go along with my selection (a nice, striped sweater with no truck or plane or tank or vehicle of any kind on it), as soon as he sees M in his Army shirt, it will all be over. And you know...if the boys do it, Anna will most likely demand cammo as well. I DO NOT WANT TO LOOK LIKE A FAMILY FROM THE HILLS IN OUR FAMILY PORTRAITS! I want them to be clean, cute, and well-dressed so that when we have totally exhausted ourselves by raising these kiddos and therefore have no memory of how things really were, we can look back at these pictures and say, "Wow! They were such cute, clean-cut little ones, weren't they?"
Someone out there might be thinking, "He's two, you idiot. You're the Mom, just lay down the law and MAKE him wear it!" To you, I laugh ruefully and sympathetically. You either don't have children, or your children are not as stubborn as mine. It seems so easy, doesn't it? I mean, at first glance, it seems as though I have the advantage in this battle of wills. I am 28 years older than he is. I've read Sun Tsu's "The Art of War" (nope, haven't, but it sounds good...and plus, out of the two of us, I'm the only one who could if I wanted). I've been to college. I weigh about 100 lbs more than he does. I am pretty sure I can take him in a wrestling match (pretty sure...but he bites, so all bets are off). You think you have control of the situation as the parent, don't you? And then the wee cutie pie communicates quite clearly that he will keep taking this stupid non-Army shirt off and throwing it across the room until his arm literally falls off. And he will punctuate this attitude by increasingly howler monkey-like shrieks the more you persist in terrorizing him by putting the offensive shirt back on him (leading the neighbors to worry that not only are you a strangely hunting-obsessed family, but that you might be abusing your children as well). This can only end badly, with him all red faced with boogers stuck to his cheek and crusting up his hair, you sweaty and shame-faced for physically pinning him to the ground and growling in his ear that "I, by God, am the ADULT! And you WILL do as I say!" Then you get the damn Army shirt anyway because you feel horribly guilty that you just made this huge deal out of a freaking shirt for a photo that few people besides you (because your husband admitted that he hardly ever looks at the photos you took last year and really registers them...as a side note, this is a man who quite honestly asked you what the real function and practical use of art was) will look at as the years go by.
Any grandparent reading this would chuckle, shake their head, and have an impulse to call me to tell me to relax and let the kids be kids. Because really these power struggles are just that, struggles for power. It is not a battle for anything that is truly significant. A fight over a shirt or skirt or cow costume is just a fight for control of an appearance, right? And we all learned in high school that appearances are misleading and really don't reveal the true nature of people. Parents care about what their kids look like because, ultimately, they are considering them as reflections of themselves. And that is kinda important, I guess. (Again, this is where I feel like I should care, but actually don't...but I'm left with a slightly uncomfortable feeling.) I think it is funny that all three of my kids are so entrenched in their ideas, they are so fully committed to their visions of themselves that they will fight to the death! Okay,that was a bit dramatic. But you get it, right? I love that about them (I just don't enjoy scheduling portrait sessions). I guess I'll have to use that old standby, Diego, as my secret weapon. Whenever I really want the kids to do something, I talk up how much their buddy, Diego, from the cartoon "Go, Diego, Go!" would really dig that particular behavior (not sure this will work on Mikey, but it's worth a try. It got Anna to stop unbuckling her car seat straps in the car because if Ol' D is a fan of anything, he is a fan of safety!).
Okay, I have waxed on long enough about this subject. In synopsis: I love my kids. Wouldn't change a thing about them. I still don't want our family picture this year to a candidate for the cover of Deer Huntin' Family! magazine (and yes, I made that magazine up, but I'm sure there is one like it somewhere). Have a good night and here's hoping I can find something non-cammoflauged to bribe Mikey into wearing with a happy, smiley face on the morning of September 19th.
PS No disrespect to hunters intended. Or to families who hunt together.
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