Ira, Ira, Ira. My posts include a lot of that kid. "Where was I?" Poor Eli will someday ask when the stories are recalled. "At school" or "Behaving yourself" will be my reply.
A conflict in babysitting left me taking the kids to work with me a couple of nights ago. Eli angelically sat down with some books and a sketch pad and a sandwich. Ira looked at a book for 30 seconds before flinging it aside in disgust, and moving on to other mischief, the devilish gleam in his eye bright enough that even my back row Zumba ladies probably feared for their lives. Rightly so.
First he tried to muffle the speakers by covering them with coats. Next he pressed his ear against them, giving himself some big-time hearing damage, I'm sure. I lugged him away by pulling on his ankles, mid-step in my booty shakin', and sliding him across the floor on his belly back to his little nest of books and snacks.... but, of course, the laughter from the audience egged him into repeating this performance as many times as he could, until I gave up on his hearing all together.
Next came the inevitable every-four-minute bathroom trips, on which Eli patiently accompanied him and zipped his pants back up, until eventually Eli came racing back with a well-known harried look on his face, and the news that Ira had locked all the stall doors and crawled out underneath. Whoops. Sorry janitors.
And THEN, the Bouncy Ball Incident. From the bottom of the snack bag appeared two miserable bouncy balls that found their way under the feet of my dancers time and time again. Not to mention the fact that Mary fell to the floor in a heap at one point because she rolled her ankle stepping on a miniature pretzel rod.
We finally left the gym with the alarm on the soda machine beeping, unidentified red goo all over our pants, and my water bottle still full to the brim, because normally between songs, I gulp it down instead of dragging children back from climbing inside lockers, stopping them from putting their thumbs over the drinking fountain stream, or chasing wayward bouncy balls.
Yesterday, thinking I had recovered, I decided Ira and I would do some Christmas shopping. Ira gets carsick, but usually only on long rides, one would think we could make it seven measly miles. We had just walked into Welch's Hardware Store when he threw up all over the Christmas aisle. Twice. Ira, myself, the floor, several velvet tree skirts, and one unfortunate saleslady will never be the same again.
Oh Lordy. Was I just saying what an awesome mother I am? I don't take that back exactly, just let me rephrase it...I'm a utter wreck, but if there's anyone out there with a four year old, they understand what I'm saying, and they're a wreck too. You can recognize mothers of four year boys by their familiar hunted expressions, their uncombed hair, sticky substances smeared on their clothes, pockets filled with repossessed sticks, rocks, clothespins, rubber bands, and really, really loud, annoying whistles. The Terrible Twos are a myth. A MYTH, I tell you. With Eli, it was the Frightful Fours, and hopefully I can live through it one more time. Fingers crossed. Keeping a sharp look out for pretzels and other hazards along the way.
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