Girls Rock The Boys. . .

For not walking until fourteen months or even crawling until eleven months, Jamie has become quite a little powerhouse. She fights us to join Adam’s soccer games, “carpet surfs” standing on her little rocking chair, pushes her way through any crowd and makes it her personal goal to find the highest point in the room. We’ve gotten used to her brutish ways and laugh that she’s our little bull in a china shop, but a couple of weeks ago, she surprised us all . . . . most of all, Adam.

On this particular night, Damonn was out of town on business so I was tasked with refereeing the maniacal monkeys until the blessed hour of bedtime. And referee is an accurate job description for what “watching the kids” has become lately. I’m thinking of getting a whistle. Adam was lying on the floor watching TV and Jamie was doing her best to reach something of which I can’t quite remember. . . . a glass?, a fork? . . . . something that could be confiscated and be turned into some kind of shank later that night in the confines of her crib. I told her “no” which of course sent her onto the floor in a tizzy resembling a Pentecostal healing. Adam glanced from the TV over his shoulder to see what the commotion was all about. I know from experience that he wasn’t so much interested in why Jamie was upset, but if there was an opportunity to infuriate her further. There was, he took it, and lived to regret it.

He ever so casually rolled over next to the sobbing baby beast, and gave her the slightest poke in the ribs. This no doubt roused the demon within and she took a rabid swing at him haphazardly connecting with his head. He recoiled, holding his head, screaming that she had hit him. I had seen the whole thing so I told him to leave her alone and sent him back to watch his TV. Fueled by this new assault, Jamie continued her wailing turning alternating shades of pink and pinker as snot ran down both sides of her face, surely rehashing any and all transgressions ever committed against her being.

Adam retreated to his spot on the carpet lying facing the TV with his back to Jamie. All seemed calm for the moment – or should I say under control – until Adam decided to execute his next plan of attack. Again, ever so casually, he held a conveniently available DVD case above her head and nonchalantly dropped it onto her tear-streaked face. This was apparently, to Jamie, the greatest of indignities and before I could rise from the couch to stop what I knew was inevitable, she had rolled with lightening speed up onto her knees, had one fist on Adam’s chest and was pounding his face with her other. Adam screamed, “She’s hitting me, she’s hitting me” as he laid on his back like a turtle flailing his arms and legs in a pathetic attempt to stop the rage he had brought upon himself. She was in full attack mode and got at least three or four good strikes in before I made it across the room to pull her off. Adam lay wailing like a beaten dog and trying once again to play the victim card, to no avail.

I separated the kids in different rooms to stop the insanity, but didn’t have the heart to punish either one of them. Adam had just received more than I’d ever give him and hopefully, but doubtfully learned his lesson. And Jamie, well. . . . I couldn’t help but be proud of my little rebel-rouser. Rock on, girlfriend.