Dinglehoffer. Twig 'n berries. Wedding tackle. Meat 'n two veg.

What do you call it (when it’s two years old, that is)?

The other day, after sitting transfixed for his daily Japanese-style brainwashing, Evan the pantless wonder spent an hour playing with his potty. As soon as he sat on it I could see that physics and velocity were not in our favour — should he pee, it would shoot directly forward all over his legs and onto the floor.

"Evan, see what we do? You sit down, and tuck in your pizzle, and then… psssss!"

The problem started when Justin heard me call it a pizzle. It’s just what came out.

"You can’t call it that!" he protested, with much more generalized male offense than I expected.

"Why?” I said. “What would you call it?"

"Wee-wee," he said. "Or pee-pee. Anything else and he’ll get teased as soon as the other kids hear him say it."

On behalf of all females, accused as we are of having overly complicated natures, I say this: WTF?!?!

On what planet is pizzle worse than wee-wee? A wee-wee gets sand kicked in its face. A pizzle has a snarky comeback. A wee-wee whines. A pizzle does cool party tricks.

The only thing that’s for certain: I’m not a fan of p-nis. The word, that is.

(I suppose my current gestational state exempts me from the 'not a fan of p-nis' category. Sorry mom, I couldn’t resist. Don't print this one out for Gram.)

The word.. it's just too stuffy. Too prissy. I don’t want a replacement because it makes me squeamish — I want a replacement because 'p-nis' doesn’t reflect how I’d like Evan to perceive his body. In my mind, a healthy sense of self requires a little humour, lightness, silliness. We all have digglers and danglers and foibles, and we're damned if we can't laugh at them. If I had a daughter (sigh), you’d never catch me using the word 'v-gina'. I'd teach her the official name eventually, of course, but we’d come up with something more colourful for everyday use. Cho-cha, perhaps. Kit-cat. Anything but what shows up in snufty textbooks.

It’s sacred because it’s yours, and it’s a gift, and it’s private. On those counts, I couldn’t be any more solemn. But why call them 'testes' when you can call them.. when you can call them…

(Pardon me a moment. He’s just in the kitchen. I don’t know these things.)

"What did you call them, when you were a kid? If the front bit’s a wee-wee, what’s the under-bits?"

"Uhhh…"

"Or are the under-bits kind of unimportant, since they’re not a part of daily operation?"

<sighs affectedly> "You’re not writing a post about this, are you?"

He sees me arrive on the playground, shrieks with joy and runs to me, full of hugs and tall tales. When we get home he spins, incapable of decompressing from such excitement. Wrung out, wound up, hilariously wild.

We’ve mastered the daycare gig. That was my contention, my relief. Until 5:00 PM today.

He monkey-clings to me when we arrive, wails when I leave, literally torn away. But apparently, I’m hardly out the door before he collects himself, turns to the party and says Hey, dudes! Pass the raisins!

He’s made it his own. He charms the caregivers with his stories and smiles. Busy, busy, busy, all is well, detailed in every day’s report: Played with trucks. Hopped. Ate two helpings mac & cheese. Had big poop. Sang at circle time. Made paper kite. Had great nap. (!!) All is as it should be.

But then, today, added to the news: Bit two children.

Typing that makes me not want to post this. There’s a shame in it, no matter what they tell you—it’s age appropriate. He doesn’t have words yet to express frustration. He’s so sweet, we just need to watch him more closely. It happens to everyone at some point.

Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseletitnothappenagain.

A fruitless wish. But not making it is resignation.

I don’t feel guilty. Well, not exactly.

I didn’t feel guilty when he didn’t know I was going to leave him.

But now, he squirms when we drive up to the school, nervous and clingy. The longer I stay, the harder it is. I run away the moment he turns his back, dash to the car with my jacket pulled up over my head like it's my first courthouse appearance.

I’m a pragmatist. I don’t entertain melodramatic abandonment theories or notions of emotional trauma. I don’t believe that unaccompanied circle time will crush his spirit or cause him to resent me for life. It’s healthy to mix things up, give him a chance to find his own feet in the world. Surrounded by colour and vibrancy and structure and songs and cheerful encouragement, all generated by others in a mama-vacuum.

I believe it’s more important to be thankful: thankful that I don’t have to leave him there five days a week. When he's ready, I'll have two full days of dedicated working time, a reliable timeslot to bring in much-needed income. And he gets a whole new roomful of toys and two playgrounds.

Win-win, right? Right. As soon as a stranger-for-hire changes his barfy shirt post-mamaleftmeagain freakout, he’ll have a wonderful time.

On this fourth morning of playschool, I do the same as for the past three: come home, shower, write for therapy and wait for 11:30. So I can sneak up on him from behind a bush and watch him, happy, unknowing. Playing and toddling and fending for himself with confidence. That’s how I know it’s going to be okay.

He is at daycare – renamed ‘playschool’, my spoonful of sugar – this morning, for the first time. “Just go,” said the friendly lady. “Go now.”

I don’t feel guilty. He’ll have a better time there than he will at home, what with circle time and craft time and snack time and dancing time. He needs it, and it’s only two days a week.

But leaving him to cry with a stranger... I’ve never been a fan of rapid band-aid removal.

Later this day: I snuck up, hid behind a bush, watched him during outside time. He sat absorbed in the sand box, collecting rocks and putting them in a bucket while preschoolers ran circles around him in a boisterous blur. Such pride.

He was fine without me, holding his own. Being called honey by somebody new. They called to him, drew him over to the slide, where he scrambled up. That’s when I popped my head into the tunnel, and he pulled himself afoot to look into my face.

As he gaped at me I saw it all rush back to him – I’ve been here by myself, and mama left. Oh! Oh. And he ran to me, suddenly desperate and face-burying. But I saw you – I whispered to him. You were grand.

At 2:30 in the morning on day five of Croupgate, I’ve decided to upgrade. To turn in my son for a newer T-2000 Baby, the updated model with automatic self-snot sucker and built-in serenity button.

He collapses on top of me, perpendicular, after screaming himself to the brink of impending vomitude in the playpen. But once he’s got what he demanded, does he melt dreamily into maternally-inspired bliss? Does he let me spoon him? Do BabyGap photographers tiptoe into the room to capture the moment for their new fall campaign? Alas, no.

His legs turn into tire irons; his arms into baseball bats. And his head into a bowling ball. His squiggling torso serves to flail all of the above into me and my soft bits without mercy. The interlude lasts approximately 45 seconds. One bloody nose and two goose eggs later, we try something else. Anything else. If this happens again tonight, I’m adding scotch to his milk.

Who can do this? With what species of baby (sea sponge, anemone, banana slug)? More importantly, would they be willing to trade? I don’t mean to imply that successful co-sleepers – parents and babies both – must have the temperaments of banana slugs. Or maybe I do. Maybe I envy them for it.

Co-sleeping: Evan and I like the idea, but neither of us can bear the application of it.

This episode: A friend tells me we’re earning our stripes. Justin and I like the idea, but neither of us can bear the application of it.

There’s barf in my hair for the third time tonight. The first two were direct hits. The third was an aftermath rescue... after racing upstairs, summoned by croup's telltale hacking gag, I found him drenched, arms up, stunned and sobbing, desperate for solace.

Try as I might, I can’t be stoic. We’re up for the second night of marathon sleeplessness and rocking and shower-running and bed cleaning. He barfs and I blubber. It’s the helplessness, I think. Something’s wrong with him, and I can’t fix it. All I can do to comfort him is smell as vile as he does in solidarity.

This is every mother’s test of mettle: to calm and soothe, be calming and soothing. Yet here I am, the very essence of Prissy in Gone With the Wind: Miss Scarlett, Miss Scarlett, I don’t know nothin’ bout no barfin’ babies!

He just has a strong sense of personal space.
He doesn’t like being boxed in.
He has to learn how to stand up for himself.
He’s a vigilante.

(Translation: Evan just shoved / bit / whacked another child.)

Little Johnny’s a Shover.
Little Johnny’s a Biter.
Little Johnny’s a Hitter.

(Can’t they DO something about that?)

(Translation: another child just shoved / bit / whacked Evan.)

The truth of my own double-standard occurred to me last night as I waited for sleep. Training your kid to be unfailingly gentle, sharing and selfless is akin to training your cat to run away. No matter how diligently you try, you’ll fail. The only remedy is time.

In the meantime, all I can do is react appropriately when we’re the aggressor: be liberally Horrified. Because I am, truly. Again. Dammit! Dammit. F**K. I am instantly naked in front of twelve thousand people, my parenting in question. My response is not so much EVAN! DON'T BITE! But EVAN! DON’T EMBARRASS US! DON’T GIVE US A COLLECTIVE REPUTATION! DON’T GET US BANNED AT FAMILY REUNIONS! DON’T MAKE US THE SUBJECT OF OTHERPARENT DREAD! DON’T LET THE REST OF THE WORLD SEE THAT I HAVE NO CLUE HOW TO DEAL WITH THIS!

Hello. My name is Kate. Sometimes, my son sees his cousin’s arm as a juicy corn cob.

Face it. Live it. Own it. No matter how pristine, no matter how perfect, your child will eventually become a toddler. And no matter how loudly you crow about Sweet Juanita’s sunny disposition, she will soon begin showing random mall shoppers her cho-cha. Or eating her own boogers at the dinner table. And even if you wrote the book, her playdate companion will someday be on the receiving end of her fisticuffs.

Please agree. Otherwise, I have to accept that it’s just Evan.

Until now, it’s been all SSSHHHHH! and tip-toeing and feeding into oblivion and bathroom fans and whispers. Two bleary adults, positively pickle-bummed at any and all non-silent offenders, a fingertip's grip on sanity being dictated or dashed by one most precious commodity: sleep.

But now, down to only one nap a day as his age requires, it’s all-important to keep him awake until after lunch. We race out in the morning, erranding and driving and visiting and grocerying against the clock to be home by 1 PM. He starts nodding off shortly after noon, and the car, once a powerful tool in the sleep-inducing arsenal, is now a dreaded pre-nap sleep-inducer.

On the way home from the city today, my rear view was of eyes rolling into the back of his head, lolling from side to side. SEE THE TRUCK EVAN? LOOK OUT THE WINDOW! WOW! WE’RE HALFWAY HOME! WE’LL TURN LEFT UP HERE! LOOK AT THE CARS! snapping my fingers and chucking volleys of dinky cars and clacky men and tonka trucks into his lap with Man I Used To Be at top volume.

(If it’s going to be a good three-hour nap, as it should be, it has to start with milk & cuddles and end in the crib. Otherwise it’s mere dozing, which simply doesn’t cut it.)

Sure thing: you get used to the new world order, settling into a routine based on proven assumptions. You know when to hold him, when to walk away and when to run.

Then, just as you’re feeling seasoned, the kid changes planets.

I often find Evan, a small-spaces boy, tucked happily into a box or cupboard playing Boat or Cave or Fort. A few days ago, he discovered a wicker laundry basket with slanted sides. Cool.

He dragged it to the middle of the living room wearing a concentrated scowl, fixing to climb aboard. But lo! Every time he’d swing his leg over the side, the whole thing would upend. He’d huff, extricate himself, right his boat and try again. And again. And again. Each time being unceremoniously dumped in a boy-basket pile on the floor.

I’d retreated to the kitchen, having left him to his play. I was chopping tomatoes or some other such dinner thing when I heard a frustrated “AAARRRRGGGH!”.

I stopped. Silence. [I like him to try solving his own problems, find his feet after bumps, before stepping in.] More silence. Then “UUUGGGNNNGGH!!!!!!” and the sound of a basket being kicked. “AAAAAARRRRGGGHH!”

I peered around the corner to see Evan in a face-off. He was MAD. Not sad-mad, poor-me baby’s mad. Toddler mad. Effing mad. Frigging-stoopidhead mad.

He swung round to glare at me, quite wild-eyed with fury. “AAAAARRRRGGGHH!!!” he screamed, locking eyes with me, baring teeth and stamping feet. He swirled around with another “AAARRGGGGHH!!” and bit the side of the basket. Take THAT! And another kick. And THAT!

He ran circles around the room, whacking everything within arms’ reach. Back to the basket, one more leg over the side, one more upend and one more “AAARRRRRRGGGHHH!”

Then, depleted, he collapsed on the floor and looked at me, panting and seething. A strange feeling, a new vibration to process. I have this energy.. and I have to get rid of it.. it’s going to be messy.. stand back, and don’t you dare get in my way.

This is some dark and inevitable stuff. I knew it was coming, but haven’t had to think of it until now. What if another kid’s on the receiving end? I’m sure it will happen, and I will be duly mortified.

Trouble is, I have absolutely no clue what to do. None. Do I ignore it, as long as no one is within flailing range? Grab him and hold him until he calms? Distract? Empathize? Mimic? Show him how silly his ARRRGGGHs sound? Try to make him laugh? Dump him in the playpen and leave the room until he gets hold of himself?

I need to figure this out, nip it in the bud. Teach him how to release his anger in a way that’s sensible, safe. The last thing I want to do when he explodes is reward him with attention. I need to diffuse the bomb with minimal fuss, and then move on. That’s my instinct, but I’ve no effing idea how to apply it.

We just spent twenty-five dollars on organic milk, said Justin the other day, after groceries. How come he gets free-range chicken, and we get frozen peas?

We say he eats what we eat, but he doesn’t. He eats better. Bags of juicy, organic pears from halfway around the world, defying the seasons at ten bucks a pop. Locally-grown lamb with fresh-ground north indian spice. Dairy products from cows who each enjoy their own personal la-z-boy, plasma-screen TV with universal remote control and beer-dispensing ballcap. It’s amazing how much the bills have grown, with the addition of one small boy.

Much of it lands in the compost. We simmer, chop, season, oooh, ahh and present with a flourish. Then we turn away, holding our breath, pretending we don’t care. He pokes, swipes, stares blankly. Five minutes later, he munches happily on toast crusts.

We're in constant search of new tricks and small victories. The latest culinary discovery: he is his mother’s son. Ketchup, on anything, is good. On eggs. On alphabet pasta. On fingers. On tofu. Little, teeny, perfect white squares, the slippery, tasteless kind that bobs in miso soup, lined up in a row and squirted upon with a straight red line, all the way across. He ate half a block this way, last night. And nothing else.

Toddlers require a nutritional shift in thinking: from the balanced meal to the balanced week. Doing so greatly reduces mealtime teeth-gnashing. If today is an All-Orange day and tomorrow is an All-Fishstick day, so be it.

That's halfway to perfection.