Here is my latest Daily Press column:
When my little boy pointed his tiny index finger at his crib, I nearly wept with joy. Then I called my mom. And the next day, I gave the full report to my co-workers.
It’s taken 11 months, but Brody has learned to accept his bed.
He’s always been a reasonably good sleeper — as long as the setting is perfect. In his world, there’s nothing better than being nestled in his mother’s or grandmothers’ arms, and there’s no reason to accept anything less comfortable.
Since he is the firstborn — of the grandchildren, too — we all have the time to carry him like a miniature sultan from place to place. And all three caretakers (his two grandmas and me) cherish our afternoon snugglefests while Brody sleeps next to us.
"He’s only a baby, after all," we tell each other.
But as he neared the 1-year mark, those infant wails transformed into toddler tantrums. I had seen this day coming, and I was dreading it — the day of discipline.
I’ve always appreciated parenting theory, and my husband, Duane, and I would discuss techniques even before we were married. Children are not capable of deciding what is best for them, and parents should have the backbone to enforce the rules.
Fine, but he’s just sooo cute.
I began to worry about my discipline chops when I realized that I have no control over our 3-year-old Weimaraner, Lady. Sure, I watch "The Dog Whisperer." I just haven’t figured out how to be the pack leader.
Those doubts have flickered in and out of my mind since Brody was born and are likely one cause of my discipline procrastination.
But not everyone in my family is an enabler. Brody’s Uncle Shawn and Aunt Amanda — both in their early 20s — have made it clear that they won’t accept a spoiled nephew.
"You’re not going to let Brody act like you-know-who," Shawn says, referring to an atrociously misbehaved relation.
"Of course not," I offer weakly, trying to figure out exactly where "you-know-who’s" parents went wrong.
So, I took my first stab at it by giving Brody the firm instruction "No."
After a few tries, Brody understood that "No" also meant "Don’t touch those TV wires," and he easily complied.
No tears, no tantrums.
"I think I’m good at this," I told myself with a sigh of relief.
Then it was time to schedule a reasonable bedtime. It was high time this child was put on a toddler’s routine and a toddler’s early bedtime, my mom reminded me, daily.
We settled on 8:30 p.m. and set about the experiment.
Three nights into it, Brody was falling asleep in his bed on his own accord. No more rocking until his arms flailed to the side and his mouth dropped open. No more laps around the pool table or early bed times for mommy as Brody fell asleep in her bed.
And it was one night during the routine’s second week that Brody sat up from my lap and pointed to his bed.
Holding my breath, I laid him in the bed and watched him snuggle down into it.
"That’s right," I thought, giddy and breathless. "I’m the mom. I’ll say when you should go to bed, and you’re going to like it."
Now that I have a few parenting triumphs to my name, I’ve developed a bit more confidence. Most recently, we’ve learned that pointing and grunting does not mean mommy will tote you wherever you please, and screaming for a cookie (the dissolvable variety) does not result in a tasty treat.
All that’s left to cover is back talk, dating and driving a car.
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