Funny, with a side of Serious

D. has a new hobby: torturing Baby J. Baby J. is learning to walk (I know. I KNOW. He’s barely 10 months old. Don’t get me started.), which means there is much pulling up on the sofa and teetering perilously. D. will look at him and just kind of flick him, and Baby J. goes crashing to the floor.

It gets worse. D. will sit on the floor to play with a truck, his trains, Elmo, whatever. I approach. “Sit down,” D. tells me, patting the floor next to himself. “Sit down.” I sit. Baby J. approaches. “No, Baby J,” D. warns. “Go away. Not your truck.” Baby J. doesn’t really take this seriously. After all, he does currently dictate our sleeping schedule and forces us to wipe his ass several dozen times a day – the thought that he could be forbidden to touch a mere toy is somewhat foreign. So, Baby J. crawls on over, gazes adoringly at D…. and is rewarded by a firm hand, smack in the middle of his chest.

We have tile floors. If Baby J. were an egg – well, let’s just say that we’d be making a lot of omelets out WG’s way.

I know this whole sibling rivalry thing is normal. But here’s the problem: When your 3-year-old pushes your almost 1-year-old, you can get in his face with a sharp, “No! We don’t push!” If this is met, hypothetically, with maniacal laughter, you can then pick up your 3-year-old and remove him for a time out. Except that when your 3-year-old weighs over 50 pounds and packs a kick that sends you reeling, that’s not so easy. And as you drag the screaming, flailing mass to your own room (because there’s just NO WAY you’re going to lug him upstairs to his own room), you find yourself thinking, “What will I do next year?”