I don’t write much about my kids on my blog. I write a little more about them on social media, and even then I never share their names. As a semi-semi-semi-semi-public figure, I want to keep my kids’ identities somewhat private.
But at the same time, as a mom, their lives are a central part of my life. I can’t talk about what it means to be me without talking about them.
Take today. Something kind of amazing happened today.
Some background. My four year old (a.k.a. Iron Baby) generally expresses himself in a boisterous fashion. He is loud. He is takes risks, like clambering up on kitchen stools to get things we’ve hidden from him on top of the fridge. He rides his scooter backwards (but always with a helmet).
My six year old is far more introspective than Iron Baby. Unlike Iron Baby, 6yo is far less apt to jab a pencil into the sheet rock.
Thus, today, when Iron Baby got angry (About what? Who knows?) and expressed it by gently laying on their sides our Peanuts nativity figures, I snapped a photograph (see above) and tweeted the situation:
Here were the parental reactions:
I mean, what would you do? I was completely torn.
“Iron Baby, it is true that you shouldn’t have freaked out all over our Peanuts nativity but actually we’re super glad you didn’t smash them to bits like we were expecting?”
“Iron baby, what a cute little passive-aggressive expression of your anger, way better than the typical plain old aggressive expression of your anger? And also I’m delighted to still have an intact nativity scene?”
These are questions I’ll have to ponder later. Because right now Iron Baby is hollering very close to me: “Mom! Please can we dance!? Mom?! Please dance with me right now.” And I have to go do that.