Once in a while, Robert and I decide to cut the kids' fingernails so they don't claw people to death. Neither of them like this task very much. Robert and I don't like it either. You have to simultaneously restrain the child, grasp the hand, and avoid getting head butted in the process. Oh, and try your best not to cut off any fingertips in the process. Worst feeling ever when you make your own kid bleed...
I usually make Robert trim Max's nails because I'm afraid to do it myself. No, seriously. He's strong! And each clip you make, he wails like you are performing an amputation.
We make him pick up the fingernail clippings and throw them away. He studies them in the same sort of way as he does boogers -- like they are oddly grotesque but also quite fascinating. He will admire his hands afterward, with tears still glistening in his eyes, and say, "They're clean!"
Yesterday:
The fingernails do tie in to this story, you'll see.
Max has the most excruciatingly annoying habit of asking for 17.3 million things while I'm driving. Maeve only asks for 5.2 million things, so I don't tend to complain about her as much. He asks for something to drink, something to eat, a pacifier, a toy that is completely unreachable or nonexistent, a very old french fry, and sometimes even for locations, people, and situations. "I want to go to grandma's house." "I want to go see my friends." "I want the baby to shut up."
Yesterday, he wanted a juice box. And Maeve chimed in for one too.
I am in no way advocating to cater to your child's every whim while driving. But I find that ignoring their requests and therefore hearing about it over and over again drives me insane, which really isn't safe either. So I do my best to hand them things at red lights and scream at them that I'm driving and that they are going to get us killed over a juice box. And then I usually make a comment about the relative unimportance of thirst compared to being upside down on the side of the road.
Silly me, I made the mistake of being considerate and putting the straw in his juice box before handing it to him. How could I have been so stupid? He became enraged at my folly and demanded a new juice box with an unopened straw. I gave the other juice box to Maeve.
I thought I would get some peace and silence for a few minutes while they slurped down their juice. But I was wrong. I heard Max struggling while trying to unwrap his straw. I expected him to either toss the juice box over his shoulder in frustration, or hand it back to me and ask for my help. The unpredictability of a three-year-old leaves me in constant fear of the worst reaction but also hopeful to a fault for the best reaction.
Instead, he went in a completely different direction.
Maybe next time we trim his fingernails, we should put them in a plastic baggy and keep them close by. You never know when you might need them to open a straw wrapper.
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