It was a fairly typical morning, so I thought I'd write it up.
Awoke at 7 and got up to check the books and get breakfast going. Sometimes Fuss wakes up early and gets me up, sometimes he notices me getting up and gets up with me, sometimes he stays in bed- today he stayed in bed.
Put the kettle on, got the oatmeal going, printed out the orders and pulled books, then he toddled out with the giant new stuffed bear his grandma bought him yesterday.
The bear has created some household disharmony, due to Fuss naming it "Coodgie". I admit to purposefully *not* buying any giant stuffed animals over the last few months in spite of his manifest enthusiasm for them because I didn't want to upstage Coodgie Woodgie. But parental control extends only so far, and when Unmedicated Bipolar Grandma gets called in for emergency childcare due to the wife falling deathly ill during my work week...well, it could have been worse.
The Wife reported this conversation over the naming conflict:
"Do you think it will be confusing? Maybe you can call the bear Boodgie."
Fuss glared at her and growled
"Mama, if you say that again....I'm going to throw BOTH Coodgies in the trash."
She burst out laughing.
And another exchange from later in the evening.
"Mama, I'm hungry. I want a graham cracker."
The wife provides a graham cracker.
Staring at her, Fuss extends his hand and very deliberately drops it on the ground. Then, still fixing her with his gaze, he steps on it and grinds it into dust.
So, this morning, he toddled out with his new bear. After a few minutes of back and forth, we settled on the moniker Giant Coodgie to differentiate bear from tiger.
He wanted to help me make coffee and became engrossed with pouring water through the filter while muddling the grounds with a spoon. After my cup was finished I replaced it with a fresh mug so he could continue his experiments. I prepped his oatmeal and told him it was time for breakfast.
This was a problem.
"Dada, I want to watch you pour the milk."
"I already did, Fuss- look."
For some reason this made him disproportionately angry and he started throwing things at me- a water filled balloon ornament, a dishtowel, one of his Thomas train engines.
"It's not ok to throw things at dada."
Undeterred, he retrieved the ornament and prepared to huck it at me again.
I snatched it from his grasp and theatrically deposited it in the trash can.
"If you throw anything else at me, it's either going in the trash or the garage."
He got the train back, switched it on and, drawing a bead, set it on the floor on a collision course with my feet. It only goes about 1/2 a mile per hour and impatient, he kicked it toward me.
See, technically that isn't throwing it at me- a four year old who thinks like Clarence Darrow.
"If you break your toy, you're not getting another one." I noted, heading for the computer to do some more book fiddling while he worked things out. He kicked and threw it around a while longer, and eventually ended up on the couch with Giant Coodgie.
After a few minutes, he'd passed the gallstone of rage and wanted to talk.
"Uh, dada, come here on the couch with me."
"Dada....you remember when I was feeling mad and was breaking my toy?"
"Then I came over here and hugged Giant Coodgie and that made me feel better."
"What a good idea! That was really smart, Fuss. Giant Coodgie is a good helper."
We sat together companionably together for a few minutes, Fuss, Giant Coodgie and myself, until it was time to get dressed for school.
Which triggered another round of trench warfare.
Such is life with Fuss.