My 3-year-old Dylan loves to blow raspberries. He’s pretty good at it.
Usually it’s a slow and gentle raspberry — the tongue is fat and wet, the lower lip is stuck out, the chin is jutted out, the eyes are calm. When he blows one of these beauties, I feel like laughing because it’s hilarious to be with someone who uses the raspberry quite seriously.
If his brother Jack antagonizes him, Dylan blows him a raspberry.
If he can’t get a toy to work properly, he blows a raspberry at it.
If he earns a time-out during dinner, we send him to the nearby garage. He knows it’s useless to resist because that will only bring on worse consequences. So he saunters to the door, opens it, steps into the garage, looks at us one last time, and gives us a raspberry. Then he shuts the door, nice and gentle.
Now he’s realizing that his raspberries are making people laugh, so he’s blowing them like there’s no tomorrow. And he can fly into a raspberry frenzy at any time, any place.
Case in point ….
The other day I tell Nancy that I’ll take the boys to the grocery store. She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“When was the last time you’ve spent thirty minutes in a grocery store with both boys?” she asks.
“Why?”
She’s still looking at me like I’m crazy, and she’s fighting off a smile. “You sure you wanna do that?
Thirty minutes later, at Lunardi’s, the boys are whizzing up and down the aisles, each with his own little “Customer In Training” shopping cart. It sounds like a dozen Roman chariots are approaching my backside, and my skin goes cold. I turn and whisper-yell for them to slow down. A yuppie holding an enormous latte gives us a long, blank stare. An elderly couple passes us, their eyes twinkling at the boys.
In the produce section I’m fingering through avocados when Dylan backs into his “training” cart, which in turn eases into a tower of vinegar bottles. The sound of clanking glass gets my attention, and Jack laughs and hollers, “Whoa.”
“Dylan,” I yell. “Freeze.”
I can feel people watching us. My skin goes cold again.
“Okay,” I whisper-yell. “That’s it. No more cart.”
“Fine,” Dylan says, and marches off toward the bananas, blowing a raspberry with every happy stomp, pumping his arms like he’s pulling on train whistles, encouraged by the howls of his older brother. A woman in a giant denim skirt looks down at him as he raspberry-stomps past her, his brows furrowed in mock earnest, and continues toward the apples and peaches.
I have a full cart of groceries. This cart of groceries has been hard-earned. I am not going to abandon this cart of groceries, I won’t leave this store in defeat. I grab the items out of Dylan’s cart, throw them into mine, corral the boys and high-tail it to the checkout area, whispering to myself, “We’re out of here.”
At home, Nancy fakes innocence. “How did it go?” she asks, heavy on the calm motherly tone.
We look over at Dylan as he raspberry-stomps through the kitchen. Only now he’s inserting fart noises between each raspberry. Jack is still laughing.
“Yeah … Well … It looks like it was a relaxing experience for you,” Nancy deadpans, and she squeezes my forearm. “I’m happy for you.”
I swear it: I’ll never so much as crack a grin at another one of Dylan’s raspberries.
Greg Bardsley 