During which I talk about my Toddler.
Because, really, you didn’t know I had one did you?
Let me preface my impending grievance simply by stating that I Love Him. Beyond human comprehension. (I realize that’s a complete hyperbole because most parents I know love their spawn with a kind of painful love that overtakes their entire body and transforms them into mere shells of their kid-free selves.) But still. I was completely unprepared for the giant sense of worship I felt the moment I held his tiny body to my breast. He latched on and I was no longer me. I was his mother. His presence has glued all the pieces of our blended family together with such an irreversible energy and strength. From his show-tunesque performances of Twinkle Twinkle to his mighty-willed tantrums of pure ferocity, I’m forever his.
I just wish he would fall into his pillow without the constant objections and wailing protests. I can’t figure out whether it’s the time change (damn you spring forward fall back!) or the foreboding transition from two years old to three years old. It almost feels like the tip of the proverbial iceberg is slowly surfacing from the icy waters of the Terrible Two’s, threatening to drag me into a dingy unequipped with oars. It feels suspiciously similar to the evolution from little kid to tween that I’m currently experiencing twice over. And yet I’m somehow skeptical that training bras and an occasional pimple will even compare to what this small, short-tempered human has in store for me.
I wish he would actually eat the food I place on his plate just like his biggies do. I wish he wouldn’t threaten provisional moratoriums on the act of eating unless I accommodate his palate with peanut butter sandwiches and mandarin oranges. I wish he wouldn’t leave me justifying his limited food repertoire by saying things like “Well at least he won’t get scurvy.”
Self-reliance. Independence. Autonomy. All qualities my Toddler suddenly strives for. All qualities that will someday make an incredibly emotive young man out of him. All qualities that make raising him through the daily, ordinary tasks somewhat harrowing for his mother. And it’s not like I don’t get on well with small people either; I can trick, tease and play them into doing most things that need to get done. But he tests my maternal capacities with abiding determination. He lifts his delicious brown eyes to mine and furrows his brow with the task at hand. He contemplates his options and expects all aspects to be within his control. And I suppose I can’t blame him because I spend most of my day doing the same thing. But I’m trying to raise him damnit! Just be a good little boy and stop forcing me into creative comas! I’m running out of material.
Let me preface my impending grievance simply by stating that I Love Him. Beyond human comprehension. (I realize that’s a complete hyperbole because most parents I know love their spawn with a kind of painful love that overtakes their entire body and transforms them into mere shells of their kid-free selves.) But still. I was completely unprepared for the giant sense of worship I felt the moment I held his tiny body to my breast. He latched on and I was no longer me. I was his mother. His presence has glued all the pieces of our blended family together with such an irreversible energy and strength. From his show-tunesque performances of Twinkle Twinkle to his mighty-willed tantrums of pure ferocity, I’m forever his.
I just wish he would fall into his pillow without the constant objections and wailing protests. I can’t figure out whether it’s the time change (damn you spring forward fall back!) or the foreboding transition from two years old to three years old. It almost feels like the tip of the proverbial iceberg is slowly surfacing from the icy waters of the Terrible Two’s, threatening to drag me into a dingy unequipped with oars. It feels suspiciously similar to the evolution from little kid to tween that I’m currently experiencing twice over. And yet I’m somehow skeptical that training bras and an occasional pimple will even compare to what this small, short-tempered human has in store for me.
I wish he would actually eat the food I place on his plate just like his biggies do. I wish he wouldn’t threaten provisional moratoriums on the act of eating unless I accommodate his palate with peanut butter sandwiches and mandarin oranges. I wish he wouldn’t leave me justifying his limited food repertoire by saying things like “Well at least he won’t get scurvy.”
Self-reliance. Independence. Autonomy. All qualities my Toddler suddenly strives for. All qualities that will someday make an incredibly emotive young man out of him. All qualities that make raising him through the daily, ordinary tasks somewhat harrowing for his mother. And it’s not like I don’t get on well with small people either; I can trick, tease and play them into doing most things that need to get done. But he tests my maternal capacities with abiding determination. He lifts his delicious brown eyes to mine and furrows his brow with the task at hand. He contemplates his options and expects all aspects to be within his control. And I suppose I can’t blame him because I spend most of my day doing the same thing. But I’m trying to raise him damnit! Just be a good little boy and stop forcing me into creative comas! I’m running out of material.
posted by Renée at 9:22 PM
2 Comments:
Something tells me in two years I'll be sitting down to write this very same post.
I think I'll just link to yours.
Good thing they're adorable, right?
Two is hard, but three is by far the hardest! The good news is that by four things get easier. In no way shape or form am I looking foreward to the tween years!!!
xoxo
he is damn cute
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