Evil Sleeves

I hate the changing of the seasons. Not because of allergies or because I prefer hot weather to cold or vice versa. I hate changing seasons because of sleeves. Yep, I totally said sleeves.

You see, changing seasons means changing wardrobes. It means going from jeans and sweatshirts to shorts and short sleeves. Each time we have to make one of these seasonal wardrobe transitions with my child, its traumatic...for everyone. It also means, that once you've won the fight, you can't go back. It doesn't matter if there is a cold snap in late May...you've broken the seal, gotten through the withdrawal symptoms over winter clothes and going backwards is not an option. He's just going to have to be cold.

Every fall, the fight is about jackets and coats. It starts off in early October by a weeks worth of chasing him around the house, pinning him to the floor with, let's face it, your knee in his back so he won't get pneumonia on the playground. He stops running away from you by mid November, stops screaming by Christmas and is bringing you his jacket in early March when you're matching up his summer short sets. Let's not even talk about hats and mittens. I just don't even go there. Yes, I have the kid on the playground with blue fingers and red ears. You come over and put gloves on him.

A few weeks ago, we had gotten him into shorts and t-shirts. It took some difference of opinion sharing (tantrums). He pulled at his arms crying and yelling, "no shirt" while I was- well sweating because he was kicking me. I find I sweat a lot with a two year old. I'm not really sure I even need a gym membership at this point. I was arrogant to think we had gotten through the worst part and so I decided to push it with a sleeveless shirt this week and some new sandals. It was Saturday, 9:05Am - perhaps you heard the screaming and wasn't sure if you should call 911.

The truth is, I have about 15 minutes of a stubborn mommy clock. I let him writhe on the floor, screaming, crying and, I think, foaming at the mouth. I say things like, "well, you're just going to have to work this out, Samuel." and "I wish all I had to be stressed out about in life were sleeves.". If he is still showing the same passion about his opinion after fifteen minutes, I think to myself, "If I had $5000 right now, I would give it to him to stop screaming because this is the most miserable moment of my entire life. I just want it to be over."

What can I say? Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose. Saturday, I lost. No sleeveless shirt, no sandals and no satisfaction when he stopped crying in the time it took me to say, "Okay, fine, you win," and skipped into the living room saying, "Max and Ruby."

The boy has got mad skillz sometimes.


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