Christmas presents, commando-style.

Commando kids are not only highly physical, they express their emotions with great gusto. They also possess a certain savoir faire—they know just how they want each scene in their military theatre to be played (yes, scene is the right word, I think); they want every detail to materialize precisely as they have envisioned it; and they let you, the actors, know if you didn’t do execute your role in their mini-drama correctly. They frequently will demand do-overs or, in the case of Christmas Eve at the front lines, they'll requisition a re-gifting.

I always have let my children open one gift from me on Christmas Eve—and amazingly, it’s always a new pair of pajamas. By Christmas, they always need a new set or two, and by getting them Christmas Eve, I ensure that at least once a year they have something cute—and matching—to wake up in and have Christmas morning pictures taken in.

Apparently, commando kids don’t believe clothing is a proper gift.

My son relegated me to the ranks of Bad Mommy for giving him pajamas—cute, green, skiing tyrannosaurus p.j.s with a button-up shirt just the way he likes.

"This present is NOT fun," he pronounced upon ripping open the paper only to discover that it was the anti-toy, and he roundly refused to wear the offending sleepwear.

Alas, the pajamas would have matched so well the new, 18-inch green bike that Santa left later for Christmas morning.

At least Santa gave the right presents—he will be permitted to return for another tour next year.

I may not be so lucky!

A five-year-old surge force

There’s no match for a troop full of testosterone.
Though girls can be just as commando as boys in many respects, the intense physicality of my boy is on overdrive when he’s growing through a growth spurt. All week I’ve been seeing double, because he’s covering a lot of ground, fast and furiously.
It was a week where being indoors out of the deep cold began to take its toll on the boy--and his handlers. The furniture has become an indoor survival training course, and we, the ladies of the house, are ready for a warming trend so we can move those big muscle groups back outside.
After being worked over all day, all it takes is one little “I love you, Mom,” to bury my battle wounds and call a truce so we can both sleep soundly in our fox holes, getting ready for another day at the front.
C’est la guerre.

To the Trenches!

First babies are talkers and gigglers,  
second babies are commando operatives, 
and growing up is an 18-year-long war.

I have observed the commando phenomenon in pairs of young relatives over time, and am reminded of it every day that I try to figure out how to be the best possible parent to my own commando kid (and to keep my sanity when he employs commando tactics on me).

I aim to highlight the battlefield humor as much as possible, as I try to keep my wits with my own commando kid and help us both win the war to get him to adulthood.

Being an Air Force Brat myself and the youngest of five, I’m intimately familiar with the inner workings of the military family unit, and I know mothers particularly are in the trenches with their commandos every day.

There’s a large body of work representing the battle plans of the adults: How to Spank Your Kids So They’ll Do What You Say; How to Get Through the Day Without Pulling Out All of Your Hair; and my personal favorite—One Shot of Whiskey Makes for the Happiest Baby on the Bottle.

I aim to flip the coin and offer advice and training to teach commando kids how to navigate the family ranks with their spirits in tact and hopefully, help parents see the humor—and at times futility—in trying to contain a commando.

To the trenches!