Say Baby

He sidles up to me while I work, quiet-like, a sparkle in his slitty eyes.

“Say 'baby'!” He squeals, hugging my arm to his face and giggling. I look down at him and smile despite the interruption.

Eli and I have a running argument. I am trying to get him to give up the bottle. He is digging his heels in, attempting to delay the inevitable.

“You're not a baby anymore, you're a big boy,” I tell him. But he laughs up at me, both with his eyes and his triangular smile, while he squashes his nose into the soft part of my arm, breathing. With big snuffling noises and little growling sounds, he continues to look up at me sideways, wriggling like a frisky puppy, “say 'baby',” he urges.

It is times like these I am hard pressed at denying the very baby-hood of him: the chubby cheeks, the soft plump limbs, the remaining infant scent, and the special sweetness he employs to get his way.

“Mommy! Mommy!” He chirrups.

“Pet-a-poo! Pet-a-poo!” I reply.

But at night, just before bed, when he asks, “Peas...gimme...miiik...”

I tell him: “'Pet, you're a big boy. Big boys don't drink from the bottle.”

He runs to his cupboard and hands me one of his empties, “Miiiiik!” He yells mutinously, “MIIIIIIK!”

And after he drinks his fill, he crawls over to where I am frowning at him in disapproval. “Miss-you, Mommy!” he sing-songs placatingly, “say 'baby'!”

I am tempted to keep the status quo, just to have more of his hugs and squeals and sweet clingy softness, but there is his mouthful of teeth to consider, and I am sorely torn.

In the morning, he reaches over from his bed to feel for my arm, “'morning, Mommy....miss-you! Say 'baby'...”

I look down at him, and he is still half-asleep, but there is a quarter of a smile on his face where the morning sun is beaming, and his fat sausage fingers clutch at my arm as if never wanting to let go.

And neither can I.

Atonement

Atonement isn't all that difficult it seems, but accomplishing it is an excruciating exercise. You're aware of your attempt to make amends, and the brutal truth is, it doesn't make you feel any better about yourself.

I make another foray into the job market, chauffered by my sister Dada and her fiance. On the way back from what seems like a morning full of hope, I stop by a novelty store and get Woog a Transformers whiteboard. It is my attempt at atonement, and a sorry excuse at trying to forgive myself.

Dada laughs at me and my all too apparent intent to compensate for my shortcomings, but she stands by me anyway, nodding with approval as I make my purchase. In this, I am very much my mother's daughter. Plagued by guilt and maternal insecurity, but too busy to do much about it. Instead I shower my offspring with too many material possessions, whether they need it or not.

That Woog goes into paroxysms of delight when I give the present to him doesn't help my conscience any one bit. And so I hang up his whiteboard and he spends endless moments loudly planning what to write on it, practically oblivious to his mother standing by his side.

The next morning I take a peek at it after he leaves for school, and a fresh wave of guild assails me. Despite everything I have done, my son loves me. Would that he would do so forever...

Woog's notes to self

No Salvation

...and sometimes I drown in words, my eyes blank with acceptance as I sink into their depths. They fill my nose and my mouth and my mind until I cannot breathe and I cannot think. But I do not struggle as I slowly submerge. For this is my fate, and there is no salvation...

February

Early morning. I am getting some work done at the computer. Eli is behind me, gliding on his scooter. Woog is at the toaster, performing his morning chore of crisping the breakfast bread. Suddenly, just when I am attempting to extricate myself from an awkward turn of phrase, Eli screams loud, long, and piercingly. I turn around, ready to tell him off for crying at the drop of a hat again, but I see something that makes my blood run cold.

Woog, for some reason only known to him, has placed the butter knife inside the oven toaster and touches its red hot tip to his brother's arm. Eli's face is purple, and he is losing his breath with his screams. The rage that comes over me is inexplicable. I grab hold of the butter knife and whap Woog on the bicep, broadside. That the knife is still hot escapes my notice as I glare at him from a red film of fury. It is only when he squeals and claps a hand to his arm do I realize what I have done.

I grab my crying boys and lead them to the nearest faucet, spraying water every which way. Atch comes downstairs, demanding the cause of the racket. When he sees the raised blistering skin of his wailing sons, none of my words can pierce through his anger. He looms over me, a stranger with hard fists.

He takes hold of his first-born's arm with tears of wrath in his eyes, “this,” he accuses me “is how he will remember you by - the monster who burned him.”

I am a mother. I am a monster. The four of us stare at each other, crying. Above us, the clock ticks ever onward to my doom.

February

The days are slow in passing, and so is the depression. The word “monster” has burned its way into my mind, like a hot brand of accusation. Already, it has made its rounds within the family, and although no one speaks it out loud

“monster...”

I see the word in their eyes

“monster...”

shining like beacons to mock my dark.

“monster...”

Only my hurt sons continue to cling to me, allowing me to smooth my apologies into their burnt skin like I do their ointment.

“monster!”

February

I am a devourer of books. I stow away in frigates and sail to far-off places in my bid to escape the world I am in. I flee my unpardonable sins. I take flight from the disillusionment in my husband's eyes. I turn tail from the unbearable people I work with each day. I am constantly on the lam from this encompassing depression. But more importantly, it is because I seek desperately to evade the glistening pink and white scar that gazes piteously up at me from Woog's arm.

William Goldman, Gail Carson Levine, Audrey Niffeneger, Annette Curtis Klause. I jump into bed with them, one after the other. Diana Gabaldon, Neil Gaiman, Cornelia Funke, Christopher Paolini, Stephenie Meyer. If they offer trilogies or novels in a series, I pursue them ever more relentlessly. In the space of two months, I have buried myself alive in 15 books.

I look up and blink around me in surprise. I find that I am in need of new glasses.

Valentine's Day

I open my eyes. Atch bends over me with a kiss and a card in his hand. The card thanks me for seven fruitful years together. Happy Valentine's Day, Aifee.

Over lunch, I hie over to his office with a gift of my own. “Here you go, fruitful,” I tell him, setting a colorful fruit compote down on his desk, “Happy Valentine's Day.”

I am constantly stuffing his lunch bag with fruits and vegetables, and with good reason. He has finally quit smoking in December, and I am insanely proud of him. Food has become a compensation for the loss of his poison sticks, and he gorges himself at every opportunity. Between the both of us, after the holidays, we have gained a good three hundred tons.

Happy Valentine's Day. He sends me off with an ardent one-sided embrace. It is the only way we can hug these days. Our bulging bellies are in the way.

February

M/V Doulos sails into our part of the backwater. A real ship. Filled with books and books and more books. The last time she was here, Eli was a toothless infant with no neck. I tell the boys about her wondrous innards, and pretty soon they are badgering their Tatay to bring them on board.

“I want to go to Doulos,” Woog nags.

“Chip, ride chip!” Eli chortles.

Resigned, Atch takes his family to the port where we feast our eyes on this seafaring missionary vessel just two years Titanic's junior.

On board, the whole city it seems, is neck and elbow amongst shelves upon shelves of books. We sweat freely while the boys dump their choice of reading material into my arms.

I am surreptitiously returning a Spanish-version Scooby-Doo board book back on a shelf when Atch hands me five cd's, his idea of digestible literature. “We're going to get ice cream, Aif,” he says before taking his sweaty self and both his sweaty sons out to the commissary, leaving me to pay for our purchases.

On the way home, it dawns on me that all I have gotten for myself is a mid-sized thesaurus and a book of household cleaning tips. No matter. I have given my boys the gift of words, and it will see them through for years to come.

Conversations With My Sons

Evening. Time for bed.

Mom: Let's go, 'Pet. Let's put on your 'jamies.

Eli (jumping in the middle of the big bed): No!

Mom: C'mon, 'Pet. I'll read you a story, then we'll drink milk. But first you have to put on your 'jamies.

Eli (still jumping while evading Mom's grasp): No!

Mom (nearly falls over the bed trying to catch Eli): Please, 'Pet.

Eli (piles pillows on top of one another and gallops away on his makeshift horse): No! No! No! Heee-yaaah!

Mom (exasperated): Elijah, don't you love Mommy anymore?

Eli: No!

Mom (losing her temper): You suplado, you!

Eli: 'Plado! You!

(proceeds to plant his fist on Mom's face)

********

Evening. Homework time.

Woog (busy opening his notebooks at the table): Teacher says I have to write 5 things about you, Mom.

Mom (busy typing on the PC behind him): Ok.

Woog (writing): Mom is....how do you spell “beautiful”, Mom?

Mom (preening): b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.

Woog (still writing): Mom has curly hair.

Mom: Mmm-hmm.

Woog (still writing): Mom is fat.

Mom: *snort*

Woog (still writing): Mom loves me.

Mom: And you had better remember that!

Woog (still writing): Mom is....Mom is....Mom is kind.

Mom: Excuse me? I think you should tell the truth.

Woog: But I don't know what else to write.

Mom: Write “Mom is strict.”

Woog: But Mom....I want to write “Mom is kind”.

Mom: I'll whup you.

(pause)

Woog: How do you spell “strict”?

Scaregiver

My sons are young and strong and resilient. They'll have to be. The world is a harsh, scary and unpredictable place, and the sooner they find out, the better it will be for them. What won't kill them will only make them stronger.

Not.

Not by a long shot, dammit!

I feel so helpless about having failed to protect and shield my babies from real life monsters. Especially if those monsters hide behind the mask of a caregiver.

Woog finally snapped and rang my office from the apartment next door. Yaya Merly had locked him out. Hot and sweaty in the noonday sun, he knocked and hollered while she ignored his pleas. In desperation, he ran to Door 4 and dialled my number. Oh bless little 6-year-old boys who have just recently learned to use the telephone!

I was speechless at her temerity. How dare her! I called her straight-away and she whined about how noisy Woog was, and how disobedient. Then she hung up on me.

We sent her away without preamble, trembling with rage at her haughty assumption that she was indispensable.

Did she hurt you, Woog? We asked. He didn't let out a single tearful word until she had packed her bags and exited the door.

Sometimes. Because I'm so misbehaved.

That he would think that of himself, my wonderfully precocious, hyperactive and insatiably curious little boy. That she had stomped down on his delicate self-esteem, stooping to the level my children, the bitch! Were she in front of me I would have punched her square on her insufferable smirk.

But she was gone, and good riddance to bad rubbish.

I blamed myself for each time I pooh-pooh'd reports from next door of how Woog and Yaya Merly held regular shouting matches: oh, he's always that noisy, I'd say. And whenever poor Eli cried while she gave him a bath, I put it down to his being skittish about water. I didn't give a single thought to why my normally sweet children were standoffish around her.

Even my own mother was vocal about how the nanny would continuously be texting on her cellphone while the baby made his own unsupervised way about the living room. She makes my blood heavy, my intuitive mother often said.

And now it comes to this. Because I didn't listen. Because I didn't take time to sit down with my babies and feel their inner temperature.

Despite the horrible guilt I harbor, I take heart that my sons are tenacious. In time, they will forget, I try to reassure myself, strengthening my resolve to be more involved and more vigilant about these two priceless jewels that I need to protect with my life.

Siesta Hour

October.

He wouldn't sleep. Not even to close his eyes and be still. He had began to yawn, but still he preferred to sit up and talk in single-word mono-syllables, ride giddy-up on piled-up pillows, and burrow under the blankets like a green-and-orange flowered ghost.

I pleaded and cajoled, scolded and screeched. I fabricated stories of red-eyed furry creatures with long sharp teeth that would burst from the windows and swallow noisy sleepless children whole. But siesta hour was fast approaching its zenith, and not a single grain from the sandman's potent arsenal had found its way into this little boy's eyes.

I was sleepy and irritable. Manong Woog, also sleepy and irritable, had scrunched into a tight ball at one corner of the bed by the wall, protecting his tenders from energetic kicks and overly enthusiastic toddler tackles. In spite of the air-conditioning, in spite of the sweetly drugging sleepy-weepy music on the cd player, in spite of my rhythmic patting of his plump thigh, Eli remained wired on the adrenalin of his very youth.

Frustrated beyond all reason, I seized about for something substantial to throw at his shrieking, bouncing self and I chanced upon Goofy, one of the stuffed animals that had taken permanent residence on his bed. Goofy stared back at me with such insufferable dumbness, sure of his place in the face of my son's sleeplessness that a red un-motherly rage shut down all sense of reason.

In front of my happy frolicking son, I started to violently slap Goofy's face. Left and right. Left and right. All the while shouting: “You horrid little dog! I'm mad at you! Mad! Go to sleep, now!”

Not content, I grabbed hold of Alligator, an ancient 3-foot relic dating back from my own childhood. I stretched poor Alligator's mouth wide by two of his remaining chicklet teeth and yelled at his soft green non-ear: “Set a good example, you %^&*@ ! Close your eyes and go to sleep! You're keeping Manong Woog awake!”

Pooh with his yellow belly fat was not spared the force of my wrath, neither was Mr. Monkey or Barney or Blue Bear. I was on a roll, vaguely aware that Eli had gone very still in the middle of the chaos of pillows and piles of blankets.

I seized Goofy on my return trip, ready for another lambasting rerun, but Eli snatched him back from my grasp with a whimper. His eyes were swimming in unshed tears and his lower lip a 5-kilo piece of blubber whose ends were quivering downwards to his collarbone. Sniffling, he crushed Goofy to his chest and gathered the rest of his stuffed menagerie closer about him. He was asleep in two point four seconds.

Behind me, Woog gave a hearty sigh of relief as he settled in for some deep slumber of his own.

Gazing at my sleeping sons, I debated whether I did the right thing. I may have solved the problem at hand, but the long-term consequences might very well translate to an adult Eli spending long hours on his therapist's couch trying to rid himself of the replaying images of his mother's stuffed animal abuse.

But then again, didn't I just teach him the value of empathy?

Feeling better about myself – after a fashion – my own sweet siesta hour began.

Zzzz-zzzz.

Once Upon A Hot Dark Night

I finally had the boys all to myself when Atch left for Cebu on a conference over the latter half of last weekend.

For the most part, I dreaded having to fend for myself as soon as our self-appointed family driver and resident cook boarded his plane Sunday morning. I did plead with him to stay and cancel his trip, but he hemmed and hawed and all but told me to shut up and quit acting like a child.

Sniff.

And so being the childish and utterly spoiled female that I am, I rang my father who jumped at the chance to spend a rare Sunday with his grandsons, with me tagging along like an extra leg. He agreed to pick us up. The boys were ecstatic. They were probably wary about me taking over the cooking again.

While waiting for our “substitute caregiver” to pick us up, I was able to get some work done on my writing while the boys tumbled about in the living room. Their play area spread outward to my minute office, and pretty soon I joined in the fun. Funny what a camera phone game (stuff-three-faces-into-the-viewfinder) can do to liven up a lazy Sunday morning.

My Tatay finally arrived and we piled into his car for the drive to our refuge-for-all-seasons, my parents' house at Bata, and we spent the rest of the sleepy afternoon doing nothing in particular.

Totally unproductive, Atch would have said. And he would have been well-vindicated: the power failed at Bata that night and we were duly chauffeured back to our tiny apartment where the electricity died exactly 10 minutes later. Payback time for missing Sunday Mass, Atch would have smirked.

So there we were in the family bed, the boys in their 'jamies, writhing and sweating miserably on the sheets. I sat at the foot of the bed, fanning them with the sturdiest cardboard folder I could find while the single candle cast grotesque shadows on the walls.

Woog, ever resourceful, had taken off his shirt and lay on his back spread-eagled, looking for all the world like a lab frog awaiting dissection. Eli just wailed. The heat was stifling, even with all the windows open, and he refused to be divested of his pajama top.

And so I fanned and fanned, sweating rivulets and swearing silently at the local power company that gifted us with cringe-worthy per kilowatt rates and consistently unreliable service.

Woog lay in silent resignation. Eli wailed. I fanned and fanned. We all sweated rivers. An hour and a half’s worth.

Outside, the neighbours came out and loudly cussed the power outage, perhaps in a bid to drown out Eli’s cries. He crawled towards me, my poor hot baby, and pressed his clean sweaty self upon my dusty sweaty self while I tried to manoeuvre my aching fan arm to get some flurries of air into everyone’s faces.

Atch was, post-conference, relaxing with bottles of beer in some snazzy Cebu bar with a live band and arctic air conditioning. He texted me a cherry “how are you”, and fanning the boys in a frenzy, I bitched back that he could’ve at least stayed. He maintained infuriating text silence after that.

Finally, just when I thought my arm would fall off and Eli would lose his voice, the lights came on. My younger son’s bawling was suddenly cut short like a guillotine falling on some 18^th century French noble’s neck. He chuckled through his snot and tears and clapped his hands like a toddler possessed. Woog merely sighed like a long-suffering martyr whose trials and tribulations were finally over, and wriggled back into his shirt.

The hell with the electric bill, I turned the air-conditioning on full blast.

_________________________

All of this I confided in a muffled voice into Atch’s armpit during a family hug when he arrived the following night.

“Poor Aif,” he said as he stroked my hair, not sounding very sympathetic at all.

"Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself..." - Khalil Gibran

...and so I called him after lunch on a Friday, eaten by regret that I was too harsh with him for not writing down his homework, leading to my punishing him by withholding a story at bedtime, and because, still vindictive, I lashed out at him for lingering too long at the breakfast table the next morning.

So I called him and I told him I was sorry.


And he said: "That's alright, Mom. You're my only Mommy, and you're beautiful, and I love you!"

Oh be still my guilty beating heart! To be over-loved and outclassed by my achingly sweet, wonderfully forgiving little boy.

I may never forgive myself.

___________________________________________

"...they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams..."

(S)mothering Much?

Woooooog....!

Oh, there you are. I was wondering what you were up to...

What's that you're doing?

Heyyyyy, cool. Those look good. You're actually working with your hands for once, good boy! It's a whole lot better than working with your mouth, no? Can I take a picture of that? Great job! You should do more stuff like this.

Isn't this better than just talking too much? Sometimes, when you talk too much and too fast I can hardly understand you. Your sentences are full of “and” and “but” and “so” and “then”. And everything you say runs together like “waway” soup. Sometimes Mommy wonders if you even breathe when you talk.

Which reminds me, what are you doing up so early on a Saturday? There's no school on Saturdays.

What's that? You're excited because school's out? Well, I guess I understand that, but why can't you wake up earlier on schooldays? Why does Mom have to pull you out of bed moaning and groaning and kicking out at her?

I thought you loved school. It's not like they torture you out there. Do they? No? Good. They'd better not. You tell Mom if they do, okay? I'll whup their butts so hard, they'll go flying to the moon.

Why are you laughing?

Yes, Woogie, I wuv you too.

Anyway, since you're up early, you might as well come down for breakfast. We have pancakes, and they're still hot. Your favorite!

What do you mean “later”? You can finish cutting that up after breakfast. That won't go anywhere, you can come back for them. Let me take just a couple more shots. There.

You know what, Woog? Mommy's worried about you. You're so thin and you don't seem to be getting any taller. Your cousin Ia's only three and she's nearly as tall as you are. Heavier, too. You need to eat a lot so you'll grow big and strong, instead of always saying “no thank you”, whenever you're given something to eat.

You're lucky you have food. Remember those pictures of the starving children I showed you? Do you want to start looking like them? You should be thankful you have lots of good food to eat. Other kids have nothing to eat at all. Show Papa God you're grateful by eating everything on your plate, okay?

Okay?

Okay.

Don't forget to make your bed before you come down. Fold your blanket properly. Make sure the bedcovers are neat.

Mom has to hurry or she'll be late for work. By the time I get back I expect you to have eaten lunch and taken a bath so we can take our siesta together, alright? Share your toys with Eli and don't make him cry. Remember, you're the big brother. You have to show a good example. Don't give Yaya a hard time.

What's that?

Oh, Woog (*sniffle*), of course I want to stay with you forever, but you know I can't. Mommy has to go to work. But I'll be back soon and we'll have our siesta together, okay? How's that?

Yes, Woogie, I wuv you too!

*hug*

Now, let's go down and have breakfast.

Shhhh....Do Not Disturb. Homework is in Session

I have been doing homework for the past four years. Imagine that. A middle-aged working mother, almost a decade removed from any form of regimentalized education, except whatever she gets by way of her son.

Yep. Woog and I have been doing homework for the last four years he's been in school. I can't literally say that it's been an educating experience for me, being as all I've learned in kindergarten, I'm learning all over again. Literally. Letter by letter. Word by word. Color by color. Numer by number.


Sometimes I get so hung up about it, I recite it in my sleep. That's what going back to doing homework at the nursery and kindergarten level does to you.

I am gratified, however, by how much of an eye-opener it has been. Guiding my son in doing his nightly homework has woken me up to several very relevant facts about life, such as:

1.) You cannot expect a pre-schooler to understand everything you are explaining to him in a dumbed-down adult sort of way. You have to spell it out, show-and-tell it, present a hundred and one examples, draw it, dance, and perform in mini theater presentations, for him to get what you are talking about.

2.) A pre-schooler has the attention span of a gnat.

3.) You may think, when you get started, that you are the most patient person in the world. You are dead wrong.

4.) As an adult adept at finding reasons to avoid attending prayer/community gatherings, parties, PTA meetings, or a neighbor's potluck fundraiser, you deem yourself a veritable expert at forming the most creative and believable excuses. You'll lose hands-down to a four-year-old.

5.) Have snacks on hand. A pre-schooler claiming to be too full to finish his squash soup at dinner will get voraciously hungry during homework time 10 minutes later.

6.) A pre-schooler has the attention span of a gnat. Divided by two.

7.) Little boys are always eager to learn, as long as it involves Pokemon, Battle B-daman and the Power Rangers.

8.) During subject review, expect memory loss 90% of the time.

9.) A tantrum thrown on study night in the middle of exam week will give you sleepless nights about your ability to parent effectively.

10.) They forgive you every time. Even if you are the wicked witch of the west every weeknight at homework hour.

Be all that as it may, I feel Woog and I have found a steady, comfortable rhythm each night when we open our books after dinner. I look at homework as a salvation of sorts, a time for us to bond - argue, hug, talk, shout, kiss and make up, and ultimately learn – in a routine that has become a part of our mother-and-son life for the last four years.

Incidentally, I've discovered something else in the last couple of nights. Something I should have implemented long ago, dumb backward mother that I am. This week is exam week and instead of making mock exam reviewers for him to answer on the back of old office scratchpaper, I decided to do it on MS Word.

It basically involved click-and-drag test questions where he positioned the correct picture under it's corresponding column, underlining the correct answer, and drawing lines to connect pairs. I made such judicious use of clip-art and colorful drawing tools that he was reluctant to stop even after our review was over. It's been such a success for the last two nights, I think I just might have a winning formula here.

Instead of having a son who goes and does his homework because its a necessary evil, he might end up an enthusiastic little boy looking forward to homework hour each night. Which makes me mighty excited and more than a little breathless at the possibilities.

You do learn something new everyday.

Homeworkus Interuptus and Other Tales of Regurgitation

“But Mooooooo-oom, I want to do my homework,” my son whined.

Woog was clearly losing it.

After having dawdled over dinner, television and his bath, he showed up for our homework date at a time when some other person would have left the rendezvous point in frustration and vowed never to go out with him again.

But as his date was his mother, clearly she had no choice in the matter.

It started out innocuously enough with some drills writing Chinese number characters while he chanted “eee...er...san...sz..ooo...lio...” to the tune of his pencil scratching on the page. By the time we got to identifying the different rooms of a house in Filipino, he was picking chunks off his eraser with a fingernail, and I had to remind him to pay attention.

I finally called it a night when he rubbed off his umpteenth mistake from the “write the members of the family” crossword puzzle. The printed squares of his workbook were looking decidedly faint, and he was peering at me irritably, expecting me to provide him with the answers. The clock had struck the hour of nine. “Bedtime, Woog.”

“But Moooooo-ooom....!”

Upstairs, Eli was coughing up the contents of his milk bottle. His throat had a tickle, and he was scratching it vigorously with violent tremors of his glottis (hack! hack! haaaa-aaack!), in the process, upchucking everything else from deep down under. Twice now that evening.

I rushed upstairs, Woog still whining at my heels.

The sour stench hit us before we even took one step inside the room. One putrid puddle lay glistening at the foot of the electric fan, the other was messily sprawled too close to Eli's bed. Atch was cursing as he frantically scrubbed down two pillows with wet wipes. Meanwhile, Eli's rejected milky diet was slowly seeping down into the floorboards.

The owner of said lactose expulsion was sitting naked on our bed, newly divested of his soiled 'jamies. “Deeenk,” he said, “deeeenk....miiik.”

“Drink milk! Drink milk!” Atch glared in the direction of the baby, “I told you not to finish that second bottle! Now look what happened?!”

Eli burst into tears.

“Mooooooo-ooom! I want to do my homework!”

This was not exactly the best night in our lives. We were tired, cranky and vomitty. We were all in need of a rest. I sent Woog downstairs, took the wailing baby in my arms, gave him a drink of water and wiped the rest of the sour dampness from him.

Atch cleaned the floor with a scowl on his face. There was no help for it. The room was going to stink of gastric juices and curdled baby formula for the rest of the night.

“Deeeenk miiiik.” Eli ventured once more.

Downstairs, I told Woog in as calm a voice that I could muster that he needed to go to bed.

“Whyyyyyyyy?” (which came out sounding like waaaaaah-iiiiiii)

“Why?” I asked him back, taking deep breaths and buying myself some time.

Shamefaced, he acknowledged his tardiness and the lateness of the hour, but followed it up with, “so I won't do homework again. Ever.”

“Ok then, you might as well stop going to school tomorrow, too.”

“Whyyyyyyyy?” he started over in a grating wail, and I found myself in danger of not only losing my patience, but regressing to my son's level as well.

“I'm mad.” Woog gritted out, knuckling his eyes and trying to still his quivering mouth.

“Which is why you have to go to bed before both of us really lose our tempers. Now, please.”

He ran upstairs, pausing to give me a tearfully resentful glance before slamming his door behind him. Faintly, I heard the bolt turning in its lock.

Nicely handled. What a swell mommy you are.

Atch came down, looking all of his forty years. Poor Atch. Haggard from a two-hour drive out of town, just gulped down his dinner, only to come face to face with a toddler playing the title role from The Exorcist. And with a wife straight out the pages of Mommy Dearest.

Some days I wonder if we'll ever get this right.