Vey Soy

I have spent a lot of time (think years, not days) believing that Noodle and Roo were the biggest challenges this parent could face. They’re eight now, both diagnosed with ADHD and seeing a doctor for the proper medication to best address their individual needs. Identical twins may share the same DNA, but that’s about the only thing they’ve shared since my uterus. You can’t find two more opposite personalities and approaches. And I figured: if I can survive THIS, I can survive anything. Right?

Boogie’s three. The year the boys were three, we came to Idaho for Christmas and within twenty minutes Noodle had broken not one but two of my great-grandmother’s holiday decorations and Roo literally beheaded the nativity set’s shepherd boy. Yesterday, Boogie silently snuck into the bathroom while I was visiting with a friend, filled a squeeze bottle with water and washed the hardwood floors in his bedroom. Five more years of this? The boys aren’t the only one who need appropriate medication.

Boogie’s apologetic response to everything is, “Soy, mama.” If he’s done something especially bad, it’s, “Vey soy, mama” accompanied by the biggest, bluest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen.

I’m no rookie, kid. You’re not soy at all. Not even a little. It’s just a ruse to drop my guard so you can plan your next kidtastrophe. This is guerrilla warfare up in here, man. He’s using sleep deprivation tactics and mental conditioning to determine the precise moment at which mom will lose her cool.

Which, naturally, happened this morning. Boogie decided he was “aww done” with the breakfast he’d insisted on, so we were in a Cold War standoff while he demanded an english muffin and I refused to give him anything else until his apples and graham crackers were gone. He stood there, glaring at me as I repeated the same words to each of his requests. I don’t even give a quarter of a crap about toddler attitude – this nation does not negotiate with terrorists. You’re eating the damn crackers, dude.

Then Roo started hollering from the bathroom because he’d forgotten a towel so I had to exit stage right to wrap his drippy, squirmy self in terrycloth. Upon returning to the kitchen, I discover Boogie’s plate is empty. Hmm. I wasn’t gone that long. Then I realize the graham crackers are pulverized on the floor and Bob the dog is happily munching apple quarters on the living room rug. Boogie holds up his empty plate and shouts triumphantly, “AWW DONE, MAMA!” Now he’s in timeout because I’m the meanest mother in the world. He takes a break from crying to tearfully proclaim, “Vey soy, mama. Have muffin?”

This is me, on an all-virtual school Wednesday. Eating my revenge english muffin for breakfast right in front of Captain Boogerpants who’s still on timeout in the corner.

Only five more years of this. I’m holding on to that thought daily. And I’m eating all the english muffins and Imma lick my fingers when I’m done.

Not soy. Not even a little.