If I had seen some gypsies on Carrollton, I would have sold him.

It started when we tried to put John in his high chair to watch Sesame Street this morning. He was having none of it, going boneless in the shoulders and arching his body up so I couldn't strap him in.

"Maybe he wants to sit on the floor," Sonya said reasonably. What the hell, right? He sat on the floor and ate his Cheerios. Fine.

Then, after Sonya had left, I was giving him his cough medicine. To take this medicine, John has to have a mask over his mouth and nose for ten or fifteen minutes. Normally he watches Elmo and ignores the medicine completely. Halfway through, though, he started struggling to get to his tricycle and pushing the mask away.

"Down," he told me, "bike!"

"Nope, you gotta take your medicine."

This ended with my right arm clamped around his waist, holding his arms down, while I held the mask to his face with my left hand. And screaming. Lots of screaming.

Then I had to sit on him to brush his teeth.

Then, on the way out the door, he spotted a balloon I got him the other day, floating innocently against the wall.

"B'loon! B'loon!"

"No. No balloon. It's time to go."

More screaming as I carried him like a potato sack out the door.

Outside I sat him down so I could lock the door. He was fine. Then...

"Come on, let's go get in the car."

He sat on the concrete. "No." More screaming, more carrying.

And he struggled against me as I tried to buckle him into his car seat. By this point I'm pouring sweat and I'm sure I looked deranged, muttering obscenities and pushing with both hands, trying to get the little s-head into a position where I could buckle the straps around him

Finally I secured him and handed him some more Cheerios.

He babbled happily.

"Whatever, kid."