There are seasons in life when you feel like all is well—you’re thriving. Yet often we don’t even realize we are thriving until something, or someone, forces us into survival mode. For me, that someone is my two-year old son Jagger.
Don’t let the adorable exterior fool you. Behind this pudgy, innocent smile lies a mastermind capable of orchestrating mommy meltdowns, sibling rivalries and household disasters that dwarf anything I’ve seen from all three of my other children combined. Jagger’s impressive portfolio includes ER visits; smuggling big sis’s makeup for his wall art creations; and let’s not forget his latest trick…the one where, after a little coxing from big brother, he rips off his diaper to mark his territory around the house.
Allow me to present to you exhibits A, B, and C.
I can see how Jagger’s escapades might seem amusing to the average observer, given his cuddly complexion. But truly, his antics are constant! Like me, even his siblings look forward to the relief that comes when he naps and at bedtime. It’s not just me who is surviving Jagger; it’s the whole lot of us.
I shared my frustrations with my husband Steve, noting how Jagger’s behavior makes it nearly impossible for me to finish any of the blog entries I’ve started, let alone an entire thought. I joked that maybe I should start chronicling the trials of surviving life with Jagger. Although I was purely being sarcastic, Steve went on to encourage me in this idea, toting his usual yeah-but-you-got-to-admit-Jagger-is-so-cute response. I came away from our conversation slightly annoyed that he didn’t fully grasp the level of unrest we go through on a daily basis while he is away at work. I thought to myself, well there will be no writing about Jagger since cleaning up after Jagger leaves no time to write!
Of course it didn’t take long for the little lad to figure out how to bring Steve’s feelings in lock step with the rest of us. In fact, it was literally the next morning. I was finishing my pancakes while Steve started on the breakfast dishes, the two of us discussing our plans for the day. Jagger ran into the kitchen and started pulling on Steve’s pant leg to get his attention. We stopped our conversation (yet again) so that Steve could interpret Jagger’s broken English and respond to his needs. Apparently Steve wasn’t as quick to respond as Jagger would have liked; so with the full force of his frustration, Jagger chucked the sippy cup of milk he was holding right at Steve. The next thing I knew, Steve was lying on the floor, wailing in pain, both of his hands shielding his crotch.
To put this situation into proper perspective, you must know that we are not talking about just any sippy cup. This thing is like a thermos, fully insulated with duel-pane plastic siding. When filled with liquid, it weighs at least a pound or more. Imagine the pain my poor husband must have felt to have something of that size and density hurled at his manly parts, protected by nothing more than a little pajama paint material. Ouch! doesn’t even come close.
After we determined that Steve was going to live despite receiving the worst kick in the pants he’d ever experienced, I grabbed my camera to take a few pictures for my blog. When he eventually looked up at me from the floor with an expression that questioned my sanity, I joked, “Hey look everyone, it’s Steve surviving Jagger. Say cheese!” The irony of the moment was just funny enough to convert Steve’s groans into giggles…and giggles into grace.
Welcome to the club babe.