It can be said that a parent really becomes a parent the first time he uses the word no. As in 'no Mylo, don't grab the extension cord', or, 'no Mylo, don't bite the cat's tail'.
For the first five months of Mylo's life my wife and I showered him with yeses. Why wouldn't we? Mylo was a soft, cuddly, immobile pile of cuteness. And while he is still soft and cuddly, he is most definitely not immobile. Mylo shuffles about the apartment, honing in on the very things a six-month-old shouldn't be handling, and vigorously inserting them into his mouth.
'Mylo, don't put the dog's paw in your mouth'.
'No, Mylo, don't grab the flower vase'.
'Mylo, no, you can't have the knife'.
A litany of no's has left me feeling like a police officer, or disciplinarian, or the strict high school teacher (usually of Math, for some reason) who relishes in meting out punishment to his students. I'm exaggerating a bit, I suppose (I don't mete out punishment, I dish out kisses), but there is some irony in the fact that I, the person who never had much respect for the word 'no' while I was growing up, the air-headed adolescent who tortured my neighbors with wild parties in high school, the insufferable wise-ass who got kicked out of class and spent untold hours in detention, the 20-something-year-old daydreamer who was fired from countless jobs, is now saddled with the responsibility of teaching that word to my son.
In a way, I suppose it's a good thing. That, within this process, I'm not only setting up important parameters for my son, I'm also learning something about myself. Something that involves responsibility and growing up.
'Mylo, NO, do not grab that glass'!
But I still can't help but think that if my high school Math teacher could see me now, he'd laugh his ass off.
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