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My internet addiction has spawned Henry’s television addiction. When Medium and Large are off at school, it is oftentimes too easy to start my morning with a cup of joe, Facebook, and the New York Times online.
I closed the laptop. “I’m going upstairs to fold laundry, Henry. When this show is over, please turn off the TV, come upstairs and get dressed.” His drool output was low; he must have heard me. Guilt battered my heart. “I love you,” I said.
Unable to tear his eyes away from PBS’ Dinosaur Train, he mumbled, “I wuv you, too.”
At what age do the adorable -isms become less adorable? I worry that he’ll be twenty years old saying things like, “I want you to meet my famiwy. They’re jutht gonna wuv you.”
“Henry, say ‘love’.”
He removed the thumb plugging his mouth. “Wuv.”
“Not ‘wuv,’ love.” I knelt in front of the armchair in which he was sprawled. “Look at my tongue. I put it on the roof of my mouth–behind my teeth–and say l-l-l-ove.”
Our faces were inches apart. His dark brown eyes searched mine. He was earnest. “I wuv you, I wuv you, I wuv you, Mommy.”
There is no other response to an expression of adoration like that, except: “I love you too, buddy.”
Bawbawa Walters did alright for herself.
I was more than irritated when I discovered another scribbled-upon wall. Liam was ensconced safely at camp; Nora has never drawn on anything but paper. That left but one suspect.
“Henry! Please come in here!”
“What’s going on?” asked my husband, wandering in from the kitchen. I said nothing. He followed my gaze to the wall and then snorted in disbelief.
“I’m gonna kill him,” I whispered.
Henry bounced into the room. He looked from me to the wall to Brendan. “Nah-uh, Mommy.” He smiled, confident in his knowledge that I would never, could never, hurt him. “’Cuz of God,” he said solemnly.
I turned away to smother a disrespectful smirk. Fixing my frown, I leaned over him. “Do you know why Mommy is not happy?”
“’Cuz you uthin’ dat voice.”
Sighing, I pointed to the wall.
“Oh!” He jumped in front of his latest masterpiece with his arms extended—trying to block my view. “Oh, dat! Thorry, Mommy.”
I explained to Henry why it was not okay to write on walls. I reminded him that we had had this conversation before and firmly informed him that I did not want to have it again.
He looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet. He was obviously feeling guilty. Just as my attitude started to soften, a paradigm shift. His eyes blazed with the Greatness of his idea. “It not me! Piggy did it!” He thrust the purported offender forward.
I was at a loss. This was a new one.
“Well…,” I stalled, casting around for the right response. Was I going to have to lecture him about lying? Was this the time to analyze the differences between what is real vs. pretending something is real? “Well…,” and then it came to me. “YOU [and I prodded his chest for emphasis] are responsible for Piggy. You know that you are not allowed to write on the wall. And SO, you should not let Piggy write on the wall either.” I paused, pleased with myself for having out-argued a three-year-old. “Now, you and Piggy need to clean up your mess.”
He nodded at me. “OK, Mommy.”
Later, I was gulping a glass of wine and reviewing the tapes inside my head. Even though Henry had tried to blame his alter-ego, ultimately, he had admitted his misconduct, expressed remorse, and received an appropriate consequence. He was learning to accept personal responsibility.
Brendan touched my shoulder. “Honey? Did you happen to notice the ‘pictures’ Henry drew on the tan chair?”
I endeavor to prevent Piggy from joining us on family excursions but my efforts are for naught as Henry tries equally hard to keep Piggy with him at all times.
Piggy is Henry’s first great love. 
When he presses her snout to his nose and gazes adoringly into her black eyes, the rest of the world stops and it is only them — a pig and her boy.
When Henry is hurt, he wants Piggy’s comfort. When he is elated, Piggy helps him celebrate. When he is tired, only Piggy’s snuggles suffice.
And just the other day, we lost her. In a department store.
We were almost at our vehicle when I looked down and realized that Piggy was missing. I stopped dead in my tracks. “Henry, where’s Pig?”
He stared at the cement sidewalk as though she might materialize. Shrugging his shoulders, he mumbled, “I dunno.”
I was disturbed by his blasé reaction. His one-and-only Piggy might never be seen again and his response was to shrug?
Henry’s attitude was casual, at first. But when the porcine puff was nowhere to be found, he began to search the store in earnest. “Mommy! What if we don’ find her?”
Moments later, his worried tone turned gleeful: “Dere she ith! Thee, Mommy, I find her!” He buried his face in her body and cooed.
Driving home, a flash of pink caught my eye. Piggy was hanging out the window; her red and purple ears flapped wildly in the breeze. I yelled for Henry to bring Piggy inside the van.
“But she’th hot!” he protested. “She wathn’t thcared! She liketh it!”
My voice shook with exasperation. “And what if you dropped her? You should be keeping her safe. Let’s not lose her twice in one day!”
Why are we careless with the ones we love?
Piggy may know, but she isn’t telling.
I found Henry in my closet. He was naked and sitting amidst my shoes and a pile of clothes that I have been meaning to bring to Goodwill.
Apparently, he had been trying on the bras.
I must note here that these brassieres were no ordinary brassieres. Rather, they were the industrial-strength, over-the-shoulder boulder-holders* that I wore when I was pregnant.
Henry ran over to me; his eyes wide and his expression earnest. “When me little teef fall out and me get da big teef in my mouf (he paused to tilt his head back and open his mouth wide) den I’ll haf dose (he pointed to my chest) like you!”
I was wholly surprised. Ummm, maybe? My mind leaped to hormone treatments, psychotherapy and surgery. I searched for the right words to use. Then I shook my head. He’s three. “Henry,” I said gently, “You are a boy. I am a girl. Boys don’t have breasts, just like girls don’t have penises.”
I could see that he was processing this information. He reached down to touch his penis. A second later, he flopped down on the carpet. He was laughing. I started laughing, too. “Alright, buddy,” I said, “Time to get dressed.”
As long as you’re happy, Henry. I will always love you.
* I don’t know who coined the phrase “over-the-shoulder boulder-holders” but Bette Midler’s character used it (or something like it) in the movie “For the Boys.” I thought it was a great description and I never forgot it.Last week, I was informed that for the past month, Henry spent his weekly “swim time” parked in a chair instead of paddling in the pool. His recalcitrance had spread to the other children and was now an “issue.”
Indeed.
I hate to swim. Not only am I a sinker, but I am uncomfortable in the locker room. I never know where to look.
Nonetheless, I agreed to go swimming with Henry.
On swim day, the kids’ flailing, spinning bodies skimmed across the classroom like spandex encased tumbleweeds. A teacher commanded the group’s attention (no easy feat) and they sat down for a pre-swim snack. As the kids munched on goldfish and blueberries, Henry’s friend X called to me.
“Henry’s Mom!” X said with a smile. “My Mommy….you.”
I could not catch X’s voice from across the room. “What, honey?” I asked, while wishing for coffee. Did I have time to run out for coffee?
The second time, X’s words were crystal clear: “My. Mommy. Can’t. Stand. You.”
Ahhh. Got it. Message received.
How was I supposed to respond to that? With a neutral “Thank you for sharing”? Or maybe a snarky “Tell her I feel the same way”? But I was caught off-guard by X’s comment. I recalled chatting with X’s mom on numerous occasions. In my recollections, she was always friendly–often saying hello and initiating our conversations.
I quickly concluded there was no appropriate response and I made none. Soon, snack was over and we were on our way to the pool. Henry was happy to swim with me and I delighted in his delight.
Later, as I reflected on X’s statement, my own Mommy-voice echoed in my head: “It’s OK. You aren’t going to be friends with everyone.”
OINKtales 
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