Two Years
It's amazing to think we've made it here- a whole two years. With surprisingly little blood shed. Right after Christmas, you contracted a nasty little cold with lots of MUCUS. Lots of it. I think the only thing worse than all the snot and coughing were your monumental tantrums. Your father looked at me at one point and whispered, "Do you think it's permanent?"
Like all men, there is absolutely nothing right with the world when you are ill. You would ask for something to eat, like a graham cracker, and then dissolve into tears and screams when I approached with it. Dear God, no! Not a graham cracker. I meant a gingerbread waffle with whipped cream. Why do you torture me- can't you see I am sick here?
To make matters worse, we got a catastrophic amount of snow and then have been enduring a long, frigid cold snap. You have not played outside in weeks. And the sidewalks are such a mess that in order to go on walks, we have to detour into the road. So beyond occasional trips to the grocery store or out to eat, you have been at home for nearly a month. This may explain why you are only interested in playing with all the things in the house that are potentially dangerous or exclusively adult. Cough drops, lip balm, the caps from my highlighters are all favorite toys these days. That brand new sparkling red Radio Flyer tricycle that sits in the kitchen. So last year. And to make matters worse, you know exactly what it is off limits. And this would be a benefit if you cared. But you'll approach my glasses, shaking your head and saying sternly "No, Owen, no," And you're looking me right in the eye when you pick my glasses up and giggle. Just checking to see if you'd still be pissed...
And then just this last week your cold lifted and so did your mood. You've been sweet and sunny since then. We all hang out at night in the living room, listening to music and wrestling. When you need something you don't melt into a puddle of goo. Instead you take me by the hand,"Come here, Mommy. Help please!" There are still tears and tantrums, but now they have a reasonable precedent. "No, sweetie, you can't dip your matchbox cars in oatmeal and milk and then take them to the sink to wash them off. But how nice of you to ask!"
Just this morning I let you watch "Finding Nemo." Previous to this your imaginative play had been confined to having two cars approach each other.
"Hello. How are you?"
"Good. How are you?"
This could go on for hours. But this morning, as I listened to you play with your trains, I was surprised to hear you call "Watch out, Nemo!" as you made the car twirl and dive towards the floor. When I asked if you were playing Nemo like the movie, you grinned, bashful at being asked but pleased to be understood and nodded your head. And I felt suddenly glad for you- that you had discovered the joy of creating and living in your own world. It made me wonder how much this next year would change you.
Posted by Kaz at January 21, 2008 2:58 PM