Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Luckily no sharp sticks were involved

As I predicted/hoped, A.J. Burnett had another humbling night on the mound last night, and the O’s took an early lead on the Yankees, gave it up, got it back, but ultimately couldn’t hang on and eliminated themselves from winning the A.L. East. However, the Washington Nationals also lost, and the Phillies won, so the Nats similarly have no mathematical chance of taking the N.L. East pennant (perhaps they haven’t ruled out the possibility of H1N1 ravaging the 40-man rosters of Philly, as well as the Braves, Marlins and Mets, leaving the Nats champs-by-epidemic-default). So I feel bad for the O’s not being able to say “Suck it, Beltway Rivals! You got eliminated first!” but at least the Nats are equally deprived of making the same taunt. It’s a wash.

On to other things … yesterday I picked up my baby boy from daycare and had another parental first, unfortunately this time not a very positive one. I was informed by one of the baby room attendants that my son spent a good part of the afternoon poking other, smaller babies in the eye, and could not be deterred until he was placed in his crib to scream and rage his way through a timeout.

Ow.  Also, slightly humorous.  But mostly ow.  Bad Maximus.
I’ve been dreading this day as somewhat inevitable. My wife and I both believe that roughhousing is a normal and appropriate playstyle for little tots. (Our dog disagrees, and hates it when we toss the child around, said hate expressed primarily via whining and running in nervous circles at our feet – but the dog does not get a vote in child-rearing matters. Or any matters.) And we’ve tried to draw some lines for little Maximus (aka The Gladiator) to differentiate between the fun and appropriate and the painful and inappropriate, but come on – the distance between slapping both sides of my head repeatedly while I laugh and poking a daycare-mate’s eyeball is pretty short. I don’t worry that we’re raising a little sociopath, and I don’t think Maximus has a single malicious bone in his body. He’s not even one year old yet. (Sometimes I don’t believe he has a single bone in his body, period – just some rubbery placeholders.) But apparently we are reaching the turning point somewhere between “Do whatever you want! Express yourself! Be wild!” where the worst wildness he could get up to was pulling all the Kleenex out of a box, and the arduous realm of discipline.

All of which is fine, really. I want to give Maximus boundaries, and I think he (read: ALL children) needs them. It’s just more work, and I’m steeling myself for it. Not complaining, not wishing it away, just steeling myself.

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