Gambling with his life.

Gabriel has taken to whining. The level of drama induced by offering the wrong colored plastic utensil has reached Sally Fields proportions of tearful overacting.

My friend, Noelle told me that she remembered being told, “Stop whining!” as a child, and she was taken by surprise. She didn’t even realize she was whining. Initially, I took comfort in knowing my children aren’t aware of what an incredible pains in my ass they can be. I thought, “At least, he isn’t intentionally trying to make me cut off my ears.” By the way, did Van Gogh have a naughty preschooler living with him? But the more he whines and the more I think about it…the fact that he is wholly unaware of his actions is a sickening and sobering piece of news. I just got notified that this particular corner of hell has no fire exit (at least not until college).

His lack of awareness truly sucks. Because it means that he is officially working off of a base, evil, gut-wrenching, instinct to scream, grunt, and yelp at decibels that should only be registered by dogs. He is just naturally being himself. I have a preschooler, who is deaf to his own voice, or more accurately, immune to voice of the mutant demon, who has stolen his soul.

How do you stop the insanity? It is like dealing with those sleepwalkers who eat in the middle of the night. How do you get those people to stop? They are asleep for heaven’s sake. How do you modify that kind of subconscious behavior? How do you get through to them? Do you dope them? Ambien had to be created with someone in mind.

Would I ever drug him? If only I could…honestly he would screech like a howler monkey if he saw me coming at him with a medicine dropper. I would have to mix it with ice cream or pudding like they do for the elderly and mentally challenged. No, drugging a three-year-old, while possibly wildly entertaining and perversely enticing, does seem a little…extreme? No, not really—I guess, just unethical.

Since he can’t be hopped up on meds, I’ve decided that I should be, at least until he has outgrown this phase. He is moody, unreasonable, and unpredictable—he is the tri-fecta of disgruntled. He is the king of the malcontents. He is the poster child for future postal workers. Just dealing with two of his afflictions should qualify me for a year-supply of Valium.

Oddly, his behavior is limited to a single, frazzled audience of one. Yes, you guessed it—me! For others he is an angel, he is sweet and humorous and delightful. People tell me how lucky I am. Never has a better hand been dealt to a woman with so much on the line. I know this gamble will pay off, as long as I can keep playing with a full deck.

So, until the incessant whining ends, I will call him Black Jack. And every time I say the name, I will accompany it with a little prayer that we both come out winners (read: alive) in the end.