The line between mama's boy and The Nature Boy

There's a line between mama's boy and The Nature Boy — and my son is walking it.


My Crazy Toddler is capable of supreme sweetness and the ultimate mama's boy prowess — we're talking Jonathan from "Who's the Boss" meets the Olsen twins circa 1993.


But the docile, cute side of CT only lasts until Daddy gets home from work. Before too long my pent-up aggression stemming from eight hours of computer work is manifesting itself through wrestling and the throwing and kicking of various balls. That's when CT goes to his dark place.


CT has animalistic capabilities. Until recently his favorite wrestling move — all of his moves are introduced and perfected on me — was the two-handed face push. Not exactly a WWF-approved tactic, but my ability to fake falling backward really sells it.


But recently CT took his repertoire to a new level, adding a move that Rick Flair himself, the Nature Boy, would be proud of. About a week ago he paused over me as my still, faking body lie prostrate on the floor, then he purposefully stomped my stomach with his tiny foot.


"Thatta boy ... er, no, I mean, that's bad, buddy." As I futilely tried to stifle my laughter, my wife sternly told me it's not OK to encourage my son to slam his feet into people's sternums — and especially not with showmanship.


Like I didn't know that.


And so the delicate balance of male progression continues. CT is allowed to throw the ball all over the house, except at the TV. He's encouraged to stomp his feet while dancing to top-40 music but discouraged from crushing my larynx during a carpet battle. His visceral screams are met with parental smiles at the playground yet disapproving cries of "No!" in a coffee shop. 


We want our son to be comfortable in his testosterone-fueled own skin, but we don't want to cultivate a 40-year-old, spandex-wearing professional wrestler.


Sorry, Rick.