But, then, we got Ben.
Aahh, Ben-Ben Hall. Mr. B. Bud. I am not sure I have ever met a human being with such enthusiasm ("Grammy got me pantses! Yes! Pantses! I love pantses!"), energy, and zest for life. Ben attacks every task with all the confidence a four-year-old can muster, knowing in his heart-of-hearts that, truly, he will be awesome at anything he tries. He loves to be the Helper Boy: washing dishes, holding tools for a project, picking up toys (though not necessarily toys he has left out), folding laundry, fetching items around the house. He loves to "read" words, to practice writing his letters, to hear books read aloud, to sing and dance in the kitchen. Ben will sit very still for a hair cut, telling cute stories and entertaining the hairdresser. He's an excellent patient when ill, allowing nurses and doctors to check his ears, swab his throat, even give him a shot. Above all things, he adores his baby sister. He wants to sleep in her room, hug her and kiss her non-stop, comfort her when she's hurt, play with her 24/7. Actually, he vehemently loves all of his family. When his older sister was gone for two days, he sat in his top bunk and sang for twenty minutes, "I miss my Sissy, she is my friend. I love my big Sissy. I wish she was here." Recently, he asked, "Mom, when I live with you when I'm a big boy, can I have my own cat? I will keep all of its poop in the closet under the stairs." He is adament that, when he is grown, he will still live with me. He'd like to marry me (yes, this does absolutely melt my heart), but he's accepted that this is not possible. He says he'll settle for just "livin' with ya" for the rest of his life. He was horrified when I once implied that he might want to live with someone else when he was grown. He is a lovey, sweet, wonderful human being who brings joy into everything he does.
Then, there is the one I refer to as "Benjamin Cleveland Hall." Yes, it is often necessary to middle name him. This boy, this devil child, I simply do not know where he comes from.
For a while, we blamed the turtles. Ben went through an obsession with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, who really aren't bad guys when you think about it, but they do kind of wrestle with and tease each other, in addition to fighting the Krang with an arsenal of ninja weapons. So, no more TMNT in our house; well, no more watching them anyway.
This did not have the desired effect. We still have the hitting, tackling, kicking, biting, screaming, throwing... You get the point. He will be doing something mildly annoying-- say, kicking the table leg-- and I will ask him to please stop. He ignores. "Ben, Mommy asked you to please stop kicking the table leg," I say, with a little more force. Now he will look at me, smirk, and kick the table leg two more times, for good measure. Now what the hell is that? "Benjamin, this is what I am talking about when I say you need to be a good listener. If you kick the table leg again, you will have to go for time out." This time, there is no pause, no room left for me to wonder if perhaps he's misunderstood. Oh no. He kicks with abandon, thumps that table leg nice and loud, and yells something like, "Kicking the leg! Kicking the leg! I am kicking the table leeeeeeeeeeg!" Turd. So, then I have to cart him off to his bedroom, give him time out, let him hang until he yells from the room, "Mom, I'm ready to be a nice boy now." What is it in him that needs this "rahr" moment with me?
And, really, that table leg story is nothin'. Once, I took Ben and Becca to Wal-Mart. (Already, moms across the world are audibly moaning.) I got them one of those carts with the double, side-by-side seats, with an entire cart attached to the front. I can't believe a person doesn't need to show a CDL to drive one of those suckers, but that's another story. Anyway, we start out on our venture, and Ben is slightly squishing Bec, just to see how far he can push her. "Ben," I say, "are we getting gummies today?" (Ben's favorite treat, second only to cinnamon graham crackers, are fruit snacks. He finds great joy in selecting which character gummies we will have for the week. He is actually quite fair in making sure Becca gets a choice she enjoys, as well.)
"Of course, Mom, we gotta have gummies," is the reply. So, I try to use the gummies as leverage. We go directly to the gummy aisle, make our selection, and I have him hold the box. I figure that any other off-the-playbook behavior can be curbed with a "Hey, we'll have to put back your gummies" comment. Boy, am I wrong.
The subtle squishing turns to all-out pushing in the dairy aisle. You know, waaaaay at the back of the store, where you're really just starting to knock out the items on your list? I threaten the gummies, tell Ben to knock it off, start moving faster.
By cleaners and paper towels, Ben has pushed Becca to the point that she is trying to bite. I remove her from the side-by-side, and put her in the front cart seat. Unfortunately, she is now facing her nemesis, and his legs are longer.
In the baking aisle, the kicking is in full swing. I am attempting to get in between them, hold his legs down, spit through my teeth, "Don't make me take these gummies back."
Well, in canned goods, I have to do it. I'm just not one of those moms. I can't make a threat, restate it, and then pretend it never happened. Right by the canned asparagus (who really buys that shit, anyway?), Ben smacks Becca over the head with the gummy box, sending her into a fit of hysterics so loud that we are now getting some looks. Just looks at this point, but looks all the same. Three or four more aisles to go, but I have to take back those damn gummies.
So, we backtrack, and I put the (sorry, Wal-Mart) now mangled box of gummies back on the shelf. I also move Becca back to the blue side-by-side, and buckle Ben's 45-pound, 47-inch-tall writhing body into the cart seat. Again, unfortunately, the dude has long legs. He can still kick Becca, and now more like in her face than just her legs or feet.
It is at this time that the screaming begins. Oh, and Ben makes some noise, too.
Ben starts bellowing "I waaaaaaaaant my gummmmmmmies!" at a volume previously reserved for civil war operations without anethesia. I pick up Becca out of the cart, carry her, and drag the cart by the front, so that Ben's fit of grand magnitude is at least not causing anyone else bodily harm. He chooses to bend and contort in ways I've never seen so that he can grab items from the cart and hurl them down the aisle. Did I mention that we just need to hit the produce section and we're done?
Somehow, by the grace of God, by the grandor of Allah, by sheer force of will, take your pick, we make it through the check out line. It is, of course, not without some nosy bitch making a comment to my son about behaving himself in the store (really?), lots of snobby looks from fellow shoppers (parenting in progress people), and running into one of Eric's sugary sweet co-workers whose children probably never even sneezed loudly.
As we head out, it is seventeen degrees in the winter air, and Ben refuses to put on his coat. Thank you, Mother Nature, for helping to drive that point home. I put Becca immediately into her carseat, turn on the heat for her, unload the groceries as slowly as I can into the back of the jeep. Then, I turn to the now-silent, uncontrollably shivering Ben.
"Mom," he says, "what does the moon do when it's cold? Does his mommy rub his hands together like you do for me?"
"I don't know, Bubba," I say, and let it all ekk out of me. Because by the time we get home, he'll have sung me "We Will Rock You" and told me a story about day care where he helped Becca go on the sled, and I won't even remember most of what happened in the store. I'll just be glad to be home, with my sweet little boy.
* Photos courtsey of Digital Story Book, Jamie Trost
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