I am so out of my league, here.

The other night, I'm making dinner while Henry is complaining that he's huuungry, that he can't waaaiiit for dinner because he's huuuuuuuungry. "It's only five minutes away," I say as I run around dropping things and burning other things. Once again I have foolishly attempted to cook more than one dish. When will I learn?

"Five minutes is a long time and I can't wait that long," Henry declares. "I need applesauce."

Applesauce. Mostly water, right? No big deal. I can't imagine how any human being could eat applesauce without potato pancakes, but that's me. So Henry gets a container of applesauce and a spoon, and he shuts up for approximately 30 seconds.

"Now I need a slice of American cheese," he announces.

"Henry, dinner is four minutes away. Four minutes!"

"Four minutes is One, Two, Three—" he gasps for breath, "FOUR, and that's SO LONG."

"No, you're not having American cheese," I tell him. No. I am firm. I am invincible. I am Mother. No little kid's going to push ME ar—

"Mom," says Henry, "You have to be more appreciating."

Excuse?

"You have to be more appreciating, and gentle, and loving, and kind."

I look at him. He's giving me that face, with the big cow eyes and the rosy cheeks and those stupid crazy eyelashes. Actually it's just his face the way it always is. But when you really look at that face, you're helpless.

"You need to be gentle to me," he repeats. He smiles. He's won. He knows it. "Cats in the Cradle" is playing in my head and my eyes are tearing up and ONE SLICE OF AMERICAN CHEESE, it's not like it's a candy bar, Alice, GOD. Lighten up for once.

"Okay. One slice of American cheese. That's IT."

"I love you so much. You're the best Mommy ever."

Yeah, yeah. I've blown it. I hand him the cheese.

"We're playing the appreciating game," he says as he bites into his cheese slice. "You have to do everything I ask because you appreciate me."

Whoa, boy. No one said anything about a game. I tell him as much, but he's insistent. "We're playing the Appreciating Game. You do everything I say because I'm just so good. THAT WAS THE DEAL."

We like to do this lately, this rewriting of recent history. Sadly no stenographer is present to support the non-crazy version of events, so I decide to ignore him.

"Do you hear me? Don't ignore me! You're appreciating me because you love me! You ARE LOVING ME!"

I turn my back to attend to something else boiling over, and when I turn back, he's standing right behind me. I yelp.

"Mommy, we have to play the appreciating game, because I said so," he tells me. "And then we're playing another game. I have so many games in my head."

It took all of my strength not to run screaming into the night.

Give me your highly conditional love.

Where have you been, Alice? Well, I've been right here, dealing with a love-sick psychotic!

Henry's school has been on winter break this week. Because four-year-olds need a break from all that fingerpainting and storytime. (Yeah, I know, the teachers need a break, what-ever.) It's been fun, because my kid, frankly, is a lot of fun, but also? He's kind of nuts. Yesterday he wept because he loves me "and it's just so good." A few minutes later, when I suggested that he put on his socks, he informed me that he was going to "slice [my] head off." When I suggested that perhaps that wasn't the best turn of phrase, he clutched my legs and swore that he was saying it to himself, as a funny little joke. Then he told me he would love me even after he was dead dead dead. Could he have a cookie? No? Then he didn't even like me and never would.

When he got over that bit of heartbreak, he sang me this song:

I love love you so much

I just can't handle it

Behold Mommy! You're the best one ever!

[whispering] but I wish you were a better one

P.S.: Wonderland today! Go see!

No one told me it would be like this.

Dear Four and a half,

You’re amazing. Never leave.

Love,

Mommy

Hey baby,

Aww, sweet thing. Four and a half’s gonna be here for a good long while. Shh, now, don’t fret. Four and a half’s gonna tell you how beautiful you are. Gonna stroke your hair, now. Four and a half can’t stop looking at you, is all. Remember how Four would slap you upside the head and not care what you thought? Four and a half might do that, too, but it’s by accident, see, and then he’s going to kiss you all over that head of yours and make sure you know it weren’t meant to hurt.

Hey, can Four and a half have that cookie? That one you thought Four and a half wouldn’t notice, all wrapped up in the pantry? No, you say? That’s cool. See? Four and a half wants you to know he can wait—he’s got all the time in the world. Or maybe that cookie isn’t for him and never will be. No matter. Some other cookie will come by, some other time. And when that time comes, Four and a half will be there. For that cookie.

Sweet, sweet love,

Four and a half

Dear four and a half,

….

Love,

Mommy

My love,

Speechless, aren’t you? I know. I know it all. Hey, want me to hold that door open for you? I knew you’d like that. Ain’t nothing I don’t know. Like spelling, baby. Like, you know what letter “word” starts with? Wuh..wuh… that’s a double-you. So it starts with “D.” D starts double-you. See, baby? Try to correct four and a half on that one, and your head will spin. Just smile, baby. Four and a half’s got it all figured out.

Four and a half’s going to draw you a picture of Obi-Wan Kenobi, now. Only instead of a light saber, Obi-Wan’s gonna have a flower in his hand. For his beautiful mommy. Oh, Four and a half is so gonna get that cookie.

Marry me,

Four and a half

The many ways in which my four-year-old is like a cat, or what you get when you write a post in ten minutes.

Henry insists on walking in front of me around the house. “I’m the leader,” he tells me, and leaps ahead, although he’s not sure where I’m going. He veers toward the living room when ha ha, I was going to the kitchen all along. This is what amuses me these days. He turns around, screeches, “Hey!” and jumps in front of me. And then stops short to explain why, athough he had requested the red Power Ranger for Christmas, we managed to purchase the wrong kind of red Power Ranger. Not paying the least bit of attention, I run directly into him and step on his foot. He cries out. I bend down to check out the damage. “Which one did I hurt?” I ask him. “Marbretta,” he says. He has named his feet. The right one is Marbretta, the left one is Plops. (Cats would probably name their paws, if they had the power of speech. You know they would. Although I’d bet they have lousy imaginations and their foot names would be Paw, Paw-Paw, Pawl, and Pawla.) The foot appears undamaged. Meanwhile, Henry is batting at my hair . “This wouldn’t happen if you’d wear shoes,” I tell him, but he’s ignoring me as he stares, frozen in wonder, at something on the ground, in doing so blocking the kitchen doorway. “It’s just a mushroom,”I say. “I must have dropped it while I was cooking. Can you pick it up for me?” He looks at me as if I had smeared myself with my own feces. “I will not pick up a mushroom,” he declares. “Charlie will eat it.” He lunges toward Charlie, undoubtedly ready to haul him mushroom-ward, but Charlie takes off, as he usually does whenever Henry comes at him. “Charlie hates mushrooms,” Henry informs me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading down to the basement to crap in a box.”

(Good enough! Quick, Alice, post it before you return to your senses!)