I've decided that if I ever wrote a book it would be called, ...And Then I Farted. Classy, right? It's just I embarrass myself on a daily basis, and a lot of times it's because I've passed gas in a public place... around human beings...who can smell...and have the power of deduction. However, I've recently come up with a title for a book I would write about you and me (and these last two months, during which I've become an expert in interpreting whining and writhing). This book would be entitled Mom for Sale. I envision a picture of me sitting on a curb with a For Sale sign around my neck with you standing next to me. These past two months have been a journey in discipline, laughter and patience.
Any extra
flubber baby weight I had from being pregnant with you has been burned away due to racking up the miles on my pedometer from chasing you around. Chasing you up stairs. Chasing you down stairs. Then up again. Then down. Then across campus. Then through Lowell. You are in a constant state of motion. Like the earth (and there's your science lesson for the day). And it's not just walking or running or climbing. You are touching things and moving things and playing with keys (that we can never find...EVER) and taking clothes out of drawers and strewing my lady products throughout our house. Ewww, I said lady products....LADY PRODUCTS, Ben.
We bought a bike trailer to pull you around the Arbor (on our bikes, not rickshaw style). You love it! You hold onto your sippy cup and keep us updated on any dogs within a 30 mile radius of us (it's your super power). I mean, really, we could have strapped a card board box to our bikes, put some pillows in and you would have been just as content, because you're outside, which happens to be your favorite place. You will stand by the screen door waiting...just waiting for someone to let you out. And when that moment comes...oh, how the angels sing. You usually dart for the basketball court because that's where you will see a ball...your favorite word. And when I try to take you away from your favorite place, your skin begins to peel off your body, you turn into a rubbery contortionist and shoot fire from your eyes. It's my favorite.
Over the last two months, you've developed this thing called "a will of your own". You have realized that maybe if you scream loud enough or whine long enough or cry those very sad crocodile tears your mother or father will let you get what you want. Maybe we'll let you never bathe. Or maybe we can just let your diaper stay on you until it disintegrates. Perhaps we'd let you eat that whole bag of barbecue chips. It's really, really hard to be consistent with you. When my mom used to say, "just be consistent." I was like "psshh, piece of cake." Whatever. I feel like I'm constantly having to do time out or tell you, "sorry, no, but can I interest you in this?" And if I slip up, you write it down in your journal late at night so that you can remember to stick it to me tomorrow. I can handle the writhing and whining at home. But, when we're in the middle of Meijer, I'm at a loss. Honestly, I usually just let you whine it out, much to the chagrin of my fellow patrons.
There was a two week period where I thought you might take out an ad on Craig's List for a new mother, because clearly, I was no longer getting the job done. I was obviously ruining your life (insert door slam here). You started to hit me when you became frustrated. And I just don't like to be hit, not even by someone as adorable as you. Every time you hit, we do a time out. Our time out consists of me holding you in your time out chair. I'm not sure if you're cognitively aware of what time out is. But, I have noticed a decline in your hitting. You do this thing now where you act like you're going to hit me and then you put your hands on your face. Or you look at your hand like, "Oops, how did that get there? Is that my hand?" You still hit once in a while, but I am hoping by the time you enter pre-school, your bid for the UFC will have subsided.
I am not saying these two months have not been hard on you. You had 5...FIVE whole teeth come in. Four of them were molars. I remember when my wisdom teeth came in--I thought I was going to die. You also had your first hair cut. So, I'm not sure if there was a Samson thing going on there. You lost your inverted Flock of Seagulls do and didn't know what to do with yourself. Your whole world was off-kilter. And then
Lost ended and
Glee is gone for the summer. Who wouldn't writhe in frustration?
These last months have really tested my patience. I cannot tell you how many times I have prayed that the Lord would give me patience...and a sedative. When you're doing something you're not supposed to (like washing your hands in the toilet), my first reaction is to get mad. But, a lot of times you just don't know any better. I mean hey, it's water...you like water...you like washing your hands...it's your height. Makes sense to me. The super-uptight, anal part of me cringes when you wipe ketchup in your newly washed hair or have ketchup covering your entire up half. I'm sorry if I've ever made you feel uptight or scared. I don't want you to feel like you're nothing short of incredible to me. I know it's been 16 months, but I'm still learning about this whole parenthood thing...and that show
Parenthood, NOT a big help (sheesh, NBC).
I remember this one episode of the
Cosby Show where Vanessa wore make up when her mom explicitly told her not to. When Claire found out, she started counting to 10 and then calmly and sagely handed out her discipline. Okay, so I'm not Claire Huxtable. Sorry. But, I really try to be fair with you. I make every effort to not react out of anger. Your dad and I are trying to help you become a caring, selfless, conscientious individual. Sometimes it's not fun. But sometimes, you make faces like this and all is right with the world. I love you, my sweet Eli, eli, oh.
