The Ruler in My Home

I have a child who likes to keep rules.

More than that, he likes to make up rules.  Not just for himself, either.  "I only let you put the cup in the other cup on Fridays," he will say to me, for example.  For the most part, we tolerate it.  He is stubborn about his rules being kept.  Once he decides something is a rule, he sticks to it.  Until he changes his mind. Which may or may not ever happen.

When he was two, he disagreed with me about how his name was spelled.

"I know how to spell your name," I told him.  "I'm the one who picked it."

He didn't care.  Neither my authority as his mother nor my English degree impressed him in the slightest.

He corrected other adults on how to spell his name.  I'd pick him up from nursery, and the teachers would look at me funny.  "Do you spell his name this way?" they would ask.

"No," I would have to say.  "But he does."

"Oh!" they would say, relieved to know I was still sane.  "He was very insistent."

It's a common name, with a simple spelling.  I don't blame them for looking at me funny.

Finally, I had to pull out the big guns.  "Look," I showed him.  "This is the way your name is spelled in the Bible."

It was good to find out that he recognized SOME authority higher than himself.

So.  He can be a formidable opponent.  If I need him to accept something, I have to program him to make a new rule in his head.

One time, he fell apart because I had--heaven forbid!--cut his sandwich in half.  When I was sick of his carrying on--about two seconds into it, I said, "Look!  Now you have two sandwiches!"  He giggled, adopted this as his idea, and ate his sandwich-es. 

Saturday night, well after he'd been put to bed and I was in bed myself, he slinked into my room.  Tearfully, he came up to my side of the bed and whimpered, "The reason I am wearing these jammies is because this is the second night I was supposed to wear these jammies."  The tears came afresh.  I had gotten out a different pair for him after his bath.

He told me his sister had put this pair of Shrek pajamas under his pillow when she had helped him make his bed.  I had stupidly gotten Buzz Lightyear pajamas out of the drawer for him.  And--I think this is what made him maddest--he had actually worn them for an hour without realizing he was breaking a rule.

"That's fine," I said, wiping tears off his face.  "You can wear those a second time."

He remained unconsoled.

"You can wear the Buzz jammies tomorrow night."

He relaxed only slightly.

"I just didn't know," I went on.  "I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know!  Please forgive me!"  Or, something like that.

Then, I shared with him the horrible truth.  I know, he's pretty young for it, but, hey.  It came up.  "It really doesn't matter whether you wear your jammies for two nights or not."

He turned his head toward me without moving his face.  He was probably in shock.

"Sometimes, I wear my nightgown for one night.  Sometimes two.  Sometimes three.  It really doesn't matter."

I hugged and held him, then, to lessen the trauma of this revelation.

I wish he were such a rule-keeper in other areas.  Like, oh, minding his mother, for example.  Sitting still in church.  Picking up his toys.  Those rules apparently mean nothing to him.  Nothing.

But don't ever try to give him a cup the same color as his plate.