And so does my kid. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen; Robbie’s a biter. Before you refuse to hold him the next time I try to pass him off to you, let me assure you that he only bites his mom. The woman who was in labor with him for 47 hours. The woman who got up with him every night while her fabulous husband snored in bed. The woman who makes sure his laundry is done and his diaper bag is packed. And I know somewhere my mom and sister are laughing because justice is finally being served.
I didn’t have many issues with biting when I was little; there’s really just one that stands out. Mostly because it’s one of the family favorites to tell at holidays. Mom left me with Hilary while she took a shower, and we were cuddled up spending quality sisterly time together. Until my sister started crying. Mom came out and asked me why Hilary was crying. I simply replied, “Probably because I bit her.” Mom made me bite myself as hard as I had bitten my sister, and I think that was the end of my biting days.
Unfortunately, Robbie is too young to reason with. I say, “Robert, no!” with as much force as I can muster (really, I just want to cry out in pain and smack him away; not doing so takes a great deal of restraint). He finally pulls back, shakes his head, laughs, and returns to my arm to attempt a second bite. So, I’m no closer to solving the problem than I was before. We have determined that no one is allowed to laugh when Robbie bites (where was that rule while I was nursing?) and that we have to be consistent. And I’ve found that saying “Robert!” instead of “Robbie” or “XiXi” gets a better response. It sounds a little more harsh, and I don’t ever use his full name.
I’m not a fan of biting Robbie back, and I don’t think he would understand putting his arm in front of his mouth when he goes to bite. Instead, that might become a game… So, I’ll keep trying to be stern. And I’ll refuse to play with him when he bites. And if you notice small, purple bruises on my arm… Well, that means we’re still working on the problem.