Borealis Aforethought

[Author’s Note: The title is a play on “malice aforethought”, which is legal lingo for “conscious intent to kill or harm”.]

Borealis turned three earlier this month. Three! My baby boy is turning into such a little man. I feel positively ancient. 

And I might be imagining it, but I swear I’ve seen a behavioral change since his birthday. My sometimes-sweet, sometimes-sour child is definitely leaning back toward the latter — at least, for the past few weeks. 

For instance, here’s a story about a recent incident — or, rather, a series of incidents. 

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“Maybe we can pay wiff dah New Yeh-gohs?” 

I groaned. It was almost naptime, and the last thing I wanted was to grant Bo’s request to play with the “New Legos”. 

Despite the [admittedly accurate] moniker, our Lego sets are distinguished less by age and more by size: the “New Legos” are regular-sized (i.e. tiny choking hazards), while the “Old Legos” are actually Duplos (i.e. too big to eat).  

I sighed. “Bo, you know I don’t like to play with the New Legos when Aza is awake, because…”

“Aza wih eat dem!” {“Aza will eat them!”} Bo finished. 

“Exactly.” 

Bo slyly eyed his sister. “Aza wahs to pay wiff dah New Yeh-gohs, too.” 

I laughed. “Oh? Is that true?” Turning to address Australis, I asked, “Do you want to play with the New Legos, too?”

Aza blinked at me innocently. “Nah.”

Bo squared his little shoulders. “Aza says, ‘Yes.’”

“Hardly,” I scoffed. (Although, Aza says “nah” for both yes and no, so Bo actually might have been right.)

In the wake of my answer, both children fixed me with soulful stares. Clearly, they were expecting some New Yeh-gohs. Er, Legos.

Sighing again, I conceded, “Ok, we can play with them for a little bit. And then it’s time for…”

“Yoh nap!” 

“Exactly.”

I retrieved a large plastic jar from the upper toy cabinet and handed it to Bo. He immediately upended it onto the table, which sent tiny choking hazards flying across the dining room. 

“Borealis!” I roared. “What are you doing? You made a…”

“Mess!”

“Yes! You need to clean up all these Legos!”

Bo surveyed the Lego-strewn floor, then looked at me seriously. “Is Mommy’s gob to keen up dah New Yeh-gos.” {“It’s Mommy’s job to clean up the New Legos.”}

“What!?” I spluttered. “It most certainly is not. You get down here to clean up these Legos, or else I will put them away immediately.”

Bo slunk down from the table and reluctantly began retrieving the Lego detritus. It was agonizing to watch him obey me so slowly. True to form, Aza used the distraction to bite the hair off a Lego person. I quickly wrestled the plastic death-device from her mouth.

When Bo returned to the table, he left a dozen Legos still scattered on the rug. 

“Hey — you think you’re missing something?” I asked, gesturing to the mess. 

“Um… I fink Mommy wih help you?” Bo suggested. 

I sighed for the millionth time that afternoon. “Ok. Say ‘please’.”

“Pees!”

I quickly gathered up the rest of the scattered bricks, then returned to the table to find that Aza had scalped another Lego person. “Aza, not in your mouth!” I reprimanded. 

“Aza, not in yoh mouf!” Bo repeated. 

Things continued like that — Bo building with Legos, Aza sneaking bites of them, and me attempting to keep them both in line — for several minutes. After realizing that Aza’s choking was not actually an imminent threat, Bo started passing the Lego people to her — and then commenting on his fraternal excellence. 

“Oh, yoh faring wiff Aza! Fee yuvs dat! It makes huh so happy!” {“Oh, you’re sharing with Aza! She loves that! It makes her so happy!”}

“You’re sharing with Aza,” I mechanically repeated. “No, wait — you would say…”

“I’m faring wiff Aza!”

“Good job.”

I leaned back in my seat. Things were going surprisingly well, and for a second, I felt ok about getting out the New Legos. But then, Bo took on a mischievous expression that clearly said, I’m about to do something naughty. 

“No, Borealis —” I started, but it was too late. As I spoke, Bo giggled and swept an arm across the table, sending Legos flying across the room. 

“Borealis!” I roared again. “Oh my gosh!” 

“Oh my goff!” Bo mimicked. “You made suck a mess!” 

“Yes, you — Aza, stop that! Not in your mouth! — you did make such a mess! And now you have to clean it up.” 

“I fink Mommy wih do it.” 

“Well, you think wrong. What does the Bible say? ‘Do everything…’”

“‘Wiffout com-pay-nin’.” {“Without complaining” — from Philippians 2:14} Dutifully, Bo slid off his chair and started picking up his mess, humming the Steve Green song based on that verse. I, of course, helped him (while still trying to keep an eye on Australis). 

As we neared completion of the task, I asked, “Alright, what should be your punishment if you do this again? Should you lose your Legos?” (Taylor and I typically try to prearrange the consequences for misbehavior.)

Bo thought for a second. “Um… maybe a fanking?” {“Um… maybe a spanking?”}

I shrugged. “Ok. If you make a mess with the Legos again, you’ll get a spanking. I think you should just stop making messes, ok?”

“Yeah!”

Aza, thankfully, hadn’t choked on anything during this prolonged absence. She had, instead, left the table and found a half-eaten apple left over from that morning. As I watched, she contentedly took another bite of the mostly-skinless fruit. 

I turned to Bo. “Hey, was that apple yours or Aza’s?” 

Bo eyed the apple in question. “Um… I fink it was Aza’s.” Which made sense, because Bo usually finishes his apple. (Neither of my children will deign to eat apple slices, usually.)

Addressing Australis, I asked, “Do you want a fresh apple?” 

She pulled the fruit from her mouth and definitively answered, “No!” — so that settled that. And then, she ambled off to play with other toys and just generally look adorable.

As we played with the New Legos, I thought about their origin. We had received them as hand-me-downs from an affluent neighbor. Somewhat coincidentally, it was actually the neighbor whose house was almost invaded by Anika in The Birth of Borealis: Part I. We finally met the homeowner this past summer, only to discover that she was moving out in October.

Luckily for us, though, she was eager to divest herself of the many toys that her sons had outgrown through the years. I received several boxes of kids’ items — including, of course, the New Legos. When she helped me bring them into my house, she unabashedly said of our mudroom, “Wow, this is such a mess. I literally could not live like this. It would give me a panic attack.” 

So, in summary, I wasn’t actually that sad when she moved. 

I was jolted from my reverie by another clatter of Legos. Bo had, once again, swept his arm across the table. I think he could tell that my mind was wandering, but that’s still no excuse for such egregious disobedience. 

This time, I was sad, not angry. “Ok bud, you made a mess again. What do you get now?”

“Um… I fink a fanking. Pah-buh-bee a yih-tuh fanking.” {“Uh… I think a spanking. Probably a little spanking.”}

I scoffed. “Really? I guess we’ll see about that.” 

I turned Bo around and gave him what I considered a medium spanking. So, I was surprised when he said, “Phew! Dat was a kohs one.” {“Phew! That was a close one.”}

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It seemed that my son was determined to oppose me at every turn — even in our assessments of spanking intensity. I looked him in the eye and asked, “Borealis. Why do you keep making messes?” 

My son stared back at me and answered, “It makes me happy.” <long pause> “But it makes Mommy sad.” 

I was speechless. Literally, what could I say to that? Finally, I mumbled, “Um, good saying, ‘It makes me.’”

Bo grinned impishly. 

“And, you’re right, it does make Mommy sad.” I tried to convey please-have-empathy-on-your-poor-mother with my expression. 

I don’t think it worked, though, because Bo responded, “It makes Mommy sad, buh dat makes Daddy happy!” 

Once again, I was speechless. Taylor and I would be having a talk once he got home. All I could muster was, “Um… I don’t think that’s true. I think Daddy doesn’t like when Mommy is sad.” At least, I hope not. 

Bo did a sort of shrug. No business of mine, it seemed to say. We [mostly me] finished cleaning up the Legos, and then I announced, “You know what? I think it’s time for your nap.” 

Bo affected a pensive expression. “Oh, weh we wih haff to fink about dis idea.” {“Oh, well we will have to think about this idea.”}

I laughed against my will. “What? Where did you even get that, ya goof?”

Alas, Bo was not forthcoming with an answer, and I realized that I didn’t actually care where the silly aphorism had originated. Eager for a moment to pray/clean/decompress, I rushed my kids through their pre-nap-time routine. That is, until it came time to nurse Aza — a task which absolutely nothing can rush. 

As I fed his sister, Bo looked over at me and sweetly asked, “Can I give you a kiss?” 

My heart instantly melted. Surely, this was an apology for his [admittedly low-intensity] rebellion. But then I realized something. 

“Wait — do you want Bo to give Mommy a kiss, or Mommy to give Bo a kiss?” 

“Mommy to gih Bo a kiss.”

I deflated a little — but it was still a sweet request, regardless. “Sure, Bo. Let me put your sister in her bed.” 

After doing so, I crouched over Bo and gave him a gentle kiss. “I love you, Bo.”

My son looked up at me, softly smiled, and then gently… punched me in the nose. 

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[Author’s Note, March 2022: Does this post seem a bit hopeless/depressed? Yeah, it’s because it was written fresh off the miscarriage of our third baby. I wasn’t yet ready to write The Death of Occidentalis — that would take more than a year — but I still needed to post something. That’s the place out of which this story developed.]