What he needs

The light over the dentist's chair felt especially hot -- like one of those interrogation lamps you see on cop shows.

"Would you say you're a clencher?" the dentist asked, with a tone that was neither accusatory nor consolatory.

I felt I should be honest. After just two minutes inside my mouth, she had already discovered that I'm a coffee drinker, an inattentive brusher and a negligent flosser.

"Well, I think so? I mean I don't know I'm doing it but I sometimes wake up in the morning with a sore jaw."

"It's OK," she reassured me. "A lot of people do it. Especially women. They don't even know they're doing it."

She didn't ask for more information, but for some reason I felt compelled to volunteer:

"I think it all started about two years ago, when my youngest was born. He's not a great sleeper, so I'm awake a lot more at night because I'm listening for him and getting up with him, and there's just no way to shut off my brain. So I'm probably letting stress filter into my subconscious thoughts at night when I should be sleeping, and, well that's probably why I clench my teeth."

The dentist understood. She's a mother of young children, too.

"How old did you say your youngest is?"

"He'll be 2 in December."

"Oh," she chuckled. "Yep. That makes sense then."

***

What he did when I wasn't looking: He sheered a page out of yet another helpless picture book on loan at our house from the library, just hours after I had finished applying a heap of clear-packing-tape bandages to a stack of other wounded titles

And hadn't I also just told Nick: "He really doesn't tear books anymore, thank goodness!"

What he needed from me: A bin of only sturdy board books next to his crib, because reading by nightlight is the only way to bridge the hour-long gap between when Mama and Papa need for all children to be asleep and when Henry actually feels tired.

***

What he did: Scribbled on the first 10 pages of my pricey teacher's manual for his big sister's language arts curriculum.

What he needed: An extra large scrap of butcher paper and a tin full of washable markers.

***

What he did: Commandeered our full basket of coloring crayons from his older siblings' craft stash and proceeded to heft it up two flights of stairs. By. Him. Self. And when asked by three separate family members if he needed help, shouted: "NooOOO!"

Then he got stuck on the third-to-last step and squealed for help because the "colrs" needed to be in "Nenry's room."

What he needed: A little coaching on manners and someone to sit with him on the rug and name the colors for him as he gingerly plucked them one-by-one out of the basket.

Yellow.
"Lello."

Pink.
"Peek."

Purple.
"Purpo."

Aqua.
"Quaqua."

***

What he did: Pushed a stool in front of the kitchen sink, grabbed the scrubber and started in on the dishes, dropping a Pyrex dish onto my favorite glass tumbler, and well, you can imagine the shardage.

What he needed: A stool in front of the bathroom sink filled with bubbly water and a soft sponge, some plastic measuring cups and metal mixing beaters.

If only I could get the horse before the cart in some of these scenarios, I might have a prayer of surviving this last set of toddler years with my maternal grace and dignity (and at least a few of our dishes and learning materials) intact.

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