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Liveblogging a Stellar Act of Parenting

Right now my kid is sitting on the floor in his room, surrounded, no, DROWNING, in puzzle pieces. I keep maybe a dozen wooden puzzles in his room and he often gets them out during "quiet time" (MORE ON THAT LATER). Today he pulled ALL the puzzles out and dumped out ALL the pieces and it's been forty-one minutes since I told him he has to put all the pieces back and put the puzzles away, or he can't come out of his room. Forty. One. Minutes. 

His sister is awake now and he's coerced her into "helping". I've allowed it, if only because it MIGHT make things go faster. Although, in this case, "faster" most likely means "messier" and "more work for me".

Forty-FOUR minutes.

This is also the kid who can stare down a teeny little stalk of broccoli or, even more mystifying, a slice of peach or a handful of grapes or BLUEBERRIES, kid-approved the world over! until the dinner dishes are put away and bedtime is imminent. 

Now he is squeaking the squeaker toy in an Elmo book. SO HELP ME.

I used to think there wasn't anything a Firm Voice and a Glare Of Impending Doom couldn't solve, but this kid has sure shown me. Cleaning up, food, putting his shoes on, sitting up straight in his chair, running away from me in a store, quiet time - where he is supposed to play nicely in his room BY HIMSELF, but is more like practicing for the days when he is a filthy rich old man with a maid who comes scurrying whenever he lifts his little bell - it's all a huge unending struggle and don't even get me STARTED on his sister, she who WILL climb into her own car seat ALL BY HERSELF. 

Fifty-eight minutes. And now there is bawling. OH JOY.

Like most of you, I pick my battles. Sometimes I think that if I disciplined every act of Toddler Terror we would be doing nothing but setting the Time Out timer all the livelong day. Some stuff just isn't worth it, but sometimes I GO there. I pick a battle. And sometimes I pick a stupid one. Like insisting that the person who dumped every single puzzle piece into the middle of the floor should be the person to pick them up and put them away, no matter how many times he tearfully wails that "I can't dooooooo it by myseeeeeeeelf!" 

Tough toenails! I am NOT going to lose this battle, people. 

I have now repeated about ninety-seven times that he is not coming out of that bedroom until he picks up his puzzles and puts them away. I don't even care if he puts the pieces back in the appropriate puzzle. I don't care if he hires Molly, flushes them down the toilet or hurls them out the window. I may say so differently on my blog, but it's going to be a VERY long time before he can whine me to death. 

Where did this stubbornness come from? Surely not ME.

...one and hour and sixteen minutes later, Jackson Cheung opted to clean up his room. I AM THE VICTOR! We are now going to make cookies, as that is the only way I can think of to redeem this disaster of an afternoon. THE END.

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