I am not proud that I stuffed my child into his snow suit while he cried yesterday. “Stuffed” is an understatement: I jammed the booger in HARD, pinning two or three appendages at a time, using my (large) feet as well as my hands and torso. He is inhumanly strong and coordinated, so that it was more like I was wrestling my husband than my child (the kid stood at seven months, walked at nine months, and vaulted out of his crib at one year).
It was a deeply unfair situation for both of us— that I NEEDED TO GO OUTSIDE (after six or seven hours indoors with two three-year-olds who were starting to do this) and that he NEEDED TO NOT HAVE THOSE HORRIBLE CLOTHES PUT ON HIM WHEN HE COULD BE INSIDE, NAKED FROM THE WAIST DOWN, ENGAGING IN A WHEELED BALLET ON HIS SHOPPING CART AS NEEDED.
The only part of the ordeal that I’m proud of (after literally rolling him out the door and then locking it so I could get my own boots on) was that about five minutes into the lying-on-the-snow tantrum that recruited his poor sister, who had been building a snowman but began to cry uncontrollably upon seeing her brother’s distress, was that