Meh, no matter, we had backup this time in the form of my mom who was nice enough to join us from her cozy, and decidedly warmer enclave, in Raleigh, North Carolina.
So, it wasn't just me dealing with my two, beautiful, perfect little angels. Which is a wonderful reality because, as it turns out, my boys are far from perfect little angels.
|Does this look like the face of a boy who'd coldly refuse|
dinner his grandma made for him? As it turns out, yes.
I could detail the many, many reasons that I didn't march him right back to the table and "make" him eat his spaghetti but suffice it to say that I'm now of the belief that if you're planning on fighting every battle with your kid, you're going to lose the war.
And sometimes, warfare metaphors are the only ones that fit.
This kid wasn't eating dinner so, I waited.
My mom had another meal cooking in the oven that would be ready shortly so, perhaps the boy would like that. Or, as it turned out, perhaps not.
So, cross scalloped potatoes and salmon soufflé off the list of potential dinners for the boy too.
While Master Blackwell was doing his best to convince my mom that the kids are in charge, the New Boy, was driving the point home.
For while the Boy was revolting in the kitchen the New Boy was having a fit of his own in the family room. He was angry and letting the world know it. And the only way to stop the his particular brand of nasty was to pick him up.
Seems simple enough, right.
When the kid is crying, even if he's fed, even if his diaper is clean — even if you've done all you can think to do — if the only thing that will stop the crying is picking him up, you pick him up.
Now, here's the problem with that.
|Net weight = changing daily.|
He's just five months old so when you pick him up, he's not hanging on you or otherwise supporting any of his formidable heft.
Nope, if you don't support him totally, he'll sway and teeter. So, it's work. Which again, is fine. But, when you're holding onto him for 20, 30, 40 minutes at a time, it turns into a lot of work, if not a work out.
As a consequence, Mrs. Blackwell's right arm is on the cusp of achieving "weirdly strong" status.
Perhaps you've heard of or seen the movie "Over the Top." It was an 80's flick in which Sylvester Stallone lifted the concept from "Rocky" and dropped it into to the theretofore never explored world of armwrestling.
And just because this wasn't weird — or terrible — enough, the movie was set amongst the backdrop of big-rig, truck driving culture. Stallone would drive hundreds of miles lifting weights with his right arm while driving unsafely with his left. He was training for a trucker armwrestling tournament in which the grand prize was a beautiful, Freightliner.
I mention this bit of epic filmmaking only to draw attention to the fact that perhaps a sequel should be made featuring moms holding onto their big babies for extended periods of time. (It's a much bigger demographic than armwrestling truck drivers after all.)
|Another Oscar snub for Sly.|
These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my fatigued mind while holding my little/huge son when my wife is away. At least those are the thoughts that run through my mind until I'm able to hand my big baby boy off to my mom and I can catch my breath.
Speaking of Mom, I'm pretty sure her bench press weight went up by about 10 pounds during her time with us.
It bears mentioning here that Mrs. Blackwell was gone for all of three days and two nights. Hardly a world tour but, damn if it wasn't long enough. These boys are getting bigger, louder and faster by the day.
It's a harsh reality to acknowledge that one is actually being physically taxed by one's kids.
All of this is to say that I remain wearily thankful for the fact that I've still got the edge on them mentally. So even if they outnumber me, they can't outwit me. Right?
That's a question I'll soon have an answer to as this was just the first in a string of extravagant business trips for Mrs. Blackwell this year.