I keep a little pair of socks in a little bowl on my night stand. I keep them there because changing Everett's clothes or diaper is a major pain in my ass. He won't lie still. He thinks that flailing his arms and legs is a game. He likes to kick.
I've never mud wrestled or hog tied anything, but I imagine that this is what it's like. Reasoning with him doesn't work. Singing to him does nothing. He's impervious to "no" and "please stop."
So yes, socks.
This is what I do: I lie him down on the bed. As soon as he starts to squirm or flip over, I grab the socks and put them over his hands like mitts. As he laughs and tries to get them off, I quickly—and I mean quickly—slip on his clothes, take a shot of tequila, and/or praise the Heavens that this sock-on-hands game has worked again.
I know one day it won't.
I dread that day.
But let's not think about that right now. Let's think ahead to the day that Everett enrolls in puppet school so he can pursue his childhood dream of becoming a puppeteer. Guess what? I'm going to take full credit for birthing the next Jim Henson. I mean really, how great am I? Employing the age-old art of distraction and instilling in him a love of the arts.
We're seconds away from cotton ball eyes and pipe cleaner mouths! Seconds.
Motherhood: we so rock this shit sometimes.
