The Messy End

Full Speed and I were in the middle of a serious debate at breakfast. “If your mind tells your body what to do (he learned this in Tae Kwon Do as the definition of self-control), then what tells your mind what to do?”

“Well, your mind knows what’s in your heart and that’s how it knows what to do,” says me.

I could tell the heart concept was not falling in his realm of understanding. I could sense a complicated course of reasoning about to happen.

Full Speed looks at me a little blankly and says, “Maybe my ears tell my mind what to do.”

“Yes, that’s it exactly, Full Speed. Your ears tell your mind which tells your body what to do,” I ramble out hoping this ends the debate. Thankfully, he is happy with this explanation and we move on with our day.

Mad Dog takes Full Speed to school while T.Puzzle and I are left behind. The window on my truck busted yesterday and I now have to wait for the service center to call me and send over a shuttle to pick me up.

I decide to take advantage of my time at home and delve into the first chore on my to-do list. I have a basket full of dirty laundry hooked under one arm and a gaggle of hangers in the other. T.Puzzle is on my heels as I head to the stairs to make my way down to the laundry room.

“Hold my hand!” he demands.

“I can’t right now, Mommy’s hands are full,” I reply.

Well, he is having none of that. He melts down into a level seven tantrum that lasts over twenty minutes (I timed it). I decide the best thing to do is to ignore it. At about eighteen minutes in I contemplate talking to him and giving him some choices between stopping crying and watching a show of his choice, or sending him to his room if the crying continues. I decide that talking to him may only increase the tantrum’s intensity and opt to continue to ignore him.

I’m glad I waited it out even if my nerves were frayed to the edge of snapping. He stops. There’s no particular reason why. He placidly comes down the stairs and looks up at me with sad, sad eyes.

“I pooped,” he says.

“Of course you did,” I say.

How is it that even if you can get your tantrum-prone child to finally calm down, that you still find yourself up to your elbows in poop?