Raising a child, especially in the thoughtful manner that I try to employ most of the time, means that my assumptions are constantly being challenged. Trying to rely on what I think I know to be true frequently fails me, since many things don't seem to actually hold true for more than a week. There are the biggies: children are people, who are deserving of respect; needs unmet won't go away, but simply change; we do better as we know better. As far as the specifics, go, though...

When Sam was a little baby, I told myself that we weren't going to allow gender stereotyping to limit the person he could be. I went out of my way to surround him with stuffed animals (in every color other than blue) and other cuddly things that I thought would help him learn to nurture and become a sensitive, caring adult. I even gave him my favorite old baby doll to snuggle.

He had other ideas. He hated stuffed animals, for the most part, ignoring them and tossing them aside. He pushed aside the doll every time I showed it to him, and when I tried to cuddle it, he yanked it out of my arms and threw it on the floor. He knew what he wanted: trucks, trains, and loud, noisy Boy Toys. My heart twisted a little when I watched him scream with laughter as he plowed his trains over the little wooden trainmaster and send him flying across the room.

Friends tried to comfort me, telling me that I'd done my best, and the important thing was to allow him to be free to explore all his options. They assured me that he was being creative, and that this was just as important as pretending to nurture a teddy bear. He was learning to be tender just from watching me care for him, after all, and if it was a toy car with which he wanted to share his snuggles, then that was just a part of Sam. Eventually, I got used to the fact that motors and engines are what fill my son's heart, and I learned how to share in his play.

And so, this weekend, when he successfully pooped on the potty, I took him out to a discount store to celebrate, fully assuming that he would choose a new dump truck or tractor trailer as his prize. Imagine my own surprise when, instead, he picked out a little baby doll in blue lace, complete with a baby bottle in its hands. He named her Baby Amy by the time we were out of the parking lot, and he loves her tenderly and deeply.

If it's not one thing, I suppose it will always be another.

To be completely honest, I found myself dealing with two issues here. It wasn't just the fact that my son chose a doll; after all, I'd tried to give him one long ago. It was the bottle, I'm sorry to say. I was a little surprised that he even knew what it was, as he's never had one in his life. I guess he's seen them in the gym daycare. Anyway, there he was, calling "Bottle!" and jamming it into the baby's mouth (where it lit up with flashing red lights and made obnoxious electronic sucking noises). It was disconcerting for a moment.

But why? I think it must have been a gut reaction, and after a moment, I firmly squelched it. After all, I know plenty of wonderful, fantastic moms who've used bottles for a variety of reasons and for whom I have nothing but respect. And what did I expect Sam to do, anyway? He knows he's a boy, and that women are the ones with "nur-nurs." Also, here he was, clearly stating that the bottle held juice, anyway. (With all those red lights, I'm not surprised.)

So there go my assumptions. My son likes trucks and baby dolls. He knows and understands that babies can be fed from breasts and bottles (better than his mama does, apparently). He also knows that babies like to be driven pell-mell around the house in shopping carts at breakneck speed and that letting mama see him kiss the baby usually leads to a kiss for himself. He's no fool, this one.

Did you notice what I slipped in there? We had another successful trip to the potty! It's a frustrating process for both him and me, since he really, really wants to poop on the toilet, but he really, really, really doesn't, well, want to poop. He asks for the toilet, and he sits there, but whenever he feels the urge to go, he pushes it down as hard as he can. This leads to some long sessions in the bathroom.

One night last week, we got home from a day at Alysia and Zach's house, and he decided he wanted to try the potty. Unfortunately, he was also very sleepy from having skipped his nap and having spent the day playing wildly with his friend. He sat on the pot for a while, and finally began to doze off. He sat there, rocking and swaying, while I warred with my conscience. Finally, my wicked side got the better of me, and I snapped a couple of quick movies.

   
(Click to download or play; they're long, so go get a drink.)

Don't worry; I'm not the sort to bring these out to show to future girlfriends. The Internet, well, that's another story.

Still nothing on the house. We had an open house today to which nobody came. Not only that, but the realtor who stayed here for it (not our main agent) didn't lock the dead bolt on the door or make sure the storm door was closed. When we got home, the storm door had blown open and broken the spring chain, causing damage to the doorframe in the process, but our front door was standing wide open. The cold weather makes it difficult to make sure the door shuts all the way, for some reason, which is why we left a note asking that the deadbolt be locked; if it is, then the door is certain to be closed. She didn't, and it wasn't.

Thankfully, everything was still here, but Eric called and complained. It doesn't look as though they'll even be held liable for the door damage, though we intend to look into that more deeply. I don't recall that any of the forms we signed said that they weren't liable for damage caused when they were in charge of our house.

Tomorrow, Eric's boss is checking into having the company just buy the house from us. Here's to this whole mess being over and done with!