Thursday, November 18, 2010

Sorry Mr. Chapin, No Cat's in the Cradle in This House: Eli 21 Months

I'd like to begin this post by saying you're my favorite person and showing the following picture:

What is it, you ask? It's your breakfast.  And although it looks like vomit, it is actually oatmeal.  The telling thing(s) in this picture are (is) the four spoons and one fork.  This picture so perfectly captures  you over the past month.  You insisted that you have four spoons (or spoooooo -- spoon in Eli) and a fork to eat this meal.  You like things done your way, and if they are not done your way in 5 seconds you will cause the earth to collapse in on itself with a single bloodcurdling scream.

You are strong willed, kid.  When I was in labor with you, you turned at the last minute.  The doctor kept trying to turn you the right way, but you were insistent on staying sideways.  I remember hearing the doctor say, "we got a stubborn one here."  And as I was cursing Eve, I thought "awesome."  When you don't get your way, you throw the nearest thing you can grab and look me in the eye and scream.  Not a long scream.  A short, Mariah-Carey-circa-Emotions-album scream.  It's your equivalent to stomping your foot.  This past week you were sick with a cold as well as suffering from two-year molar pain.  My friend, it was like living with Aretha Franklin after a particularly infuriating VH1's Divas special.  You were angry with life.
 (yes, yes you are eating marshmallows straight from the bag...after crying for 20 minutes straight...I went with it.)

I don't want you to think life with you this past month has reduced me to an unhappy, Xanax dependent mom.  I love every minute with you.  You're just catching me at the end of a week where, at one point, we were both crying because we didn't know what you wanted.  Actually, you're quite the little charmer.  I was talking with a friend the other day telling her how more people on campus know you than me.  You love to play out in the lounge area of our building and greet people as they walk in.  You're like the host at a restaurant.  Guys will walk in and give you high fives and fist bumps; it's completely melt-your-heart adorable.  I feel like a majority of the guys in our building would step in front of a bus for you.

In other awesome news, you have started asking to go potty.  Now, I'm the kind of person who puts off challenging tasks until the last minute.  So, honestly I was expecting to give you a crash course in potty training prior to your first date.  But, one day you pointed to the toilet and said "tinka" (Eli for tinkle").  I put you on it, and you went "tinka." I.was.amazed. And then you did it again and another time.  It's not a consistent thing and you haven't dropped a deuce yet, but yowza, kid, you are incredible.  You amaze me every day with things you do or say.

Also, you're the funniest kid I know...funnier than Rudy Huxtable (the early years...don't get me started on Rudy during the desperate Olivia episodes).  In about ten years, what I'm about to write will have you requesting change of name forms and a PPO against me, but you, my friend, have inherited your mother's gastrointestinal tendencies.  Which is a fancy way of saying you fart and burp a lot.  Now before any of my readers start suggesting vegan, non-dairy diet plans, relax.  The Ricks and the Parkers are gassy people, so it only makes sense that my child would also be a gassy person.  The great thing about it, is that you think it's hilarious when you fart or burp.  I've even caught you lifting a butt cheek to get full push.  You will say 'xcuse you' (which is what we say to you when you do it) and give the nearest person a high five.  If you're gonna survive in this family, you have to think gas is funny.

Speaking of funny people, you have become the president of your father's fan club this past month.  Now, I'm going to admit something that will earn me top billing as the most horrible person on this planet next to Rosie O'Donnell, but this was hard for me.  Up until a couple months ago, you were the president of my fan club.  I was your go-to-gal.  Now, though, it's your papa.  I was walking behind you and your dad (walking hand in hand) at Target the other night and thought, "Wow, what am I being a dork for?  I am so blessed to be married to a man who is an amazing father."  Your father loves you more than anything, more than the Detroit Tigers or Oreos.  You're his little man, and I am brought to tears when I think about how blessed you are to have such an amazing role model.  I worry about you and the world you're growing up in (a world where dangling prepositions run rampant).  But I feel a peace knowing that you have a Godly father who will help you become an equally amazing man of God.  I love that my favorites are each other's favorites.

Despite our differences these past couple months, you're still one of my favorite people to be around.  I hope you never doubt my unconditional love for you.  There is nothing you could do that would make me love you any less.  Not even if you voted democrat.


rachel said...

This may be the best post you've ever written. Laugh out loud hilarious & holding-back-tears poignant. Your son is a lucky little guy. A gassy, lucky little guy. (Seriously? High fiving? That is the best thing I've ever heard.)

Melissa Hoffman said...

LOVE LOVE LOVE this post. I laughed out loud- as usual.