When I was 12 or so and interested in all the sordid details of my parents' divorce 8 years earlier, I once asked some relatives what my parents' marriage had been like. "Hot and cold," they answered. When it was good, it was very, very good and when it was bad it was horrid. My mother's moods in general could sort of be described that way, though she lacked the Parker poem's forehead curl.
Lately this also seems an apt description of life with the wee redhead. Or, more specifically, my relationship with him. Wes seems to be doing fine, yawning through the tantrums since he has been through this before with GMB. I... tend to get really angry really fast.
Maybe hot and cold is just an apt description of toddlers. It is fits mine. One minute all is right and we are snuggled up and life is grand and then suddenly his head is spinning around and flames are shooting out of his ears and I am being screamed at. He SCREAMS at me. Passionately. How did this happen?
I am not good with all this. I can make it through the sillier ones - sudden freakouts over which toy to play with or a train track not connecting or dinner not eaten. We pick our battles around here. He sleeps in his tutu, for example. No, we only tackle things when they really matter. The one that gets me is the diaper. It is not constant anymore - we have finally reached a stage where he often tells us if he pooped. But sometimes no. Sometimes we revert back to the "NO diaper change NO way" mode of prior months. Like last night, for example. His infamous bedtime poop. His utter refusal to allow it to be changed. My insistence. Me trying every persuasion technique I have before growing very, very tired of this and finally just holding him down on my lap while he screamed bloody murder. I kept saying loudly, in case the neighbors could hear, "Mommy's job is to keep you clean and safe and I have to change your diaper so you don't get a rash." All the while trying my damnedest not to allow the necessary holding down to escalate with the rage I was feeling. A similar freakout occurred over undressing for bath and bed the other night. I had to hold him down and remove his clothes amidst screams of, "STOP MOMMA! DON DO DAT TO ME MOMMA!" I was sure someone was calling the authorities. And don't get me started on the insane guilt and worry I feel over all these negative associations with poop. This child will never potty train, I swear.
It takes the most will power of my life to stay even sort of calm in these moments. I don't always succeed. I have yelled louder than I would like. I walk away a lot. OK, I storm away. I say, through gritted teeth, MOMMY IS FEELING VERY ANGRY RIGHT NOW. It is a trying time with much drama ahead, I know.
But then...
he comes into the bed with us in the mornings now. He stopped for a while when he weaned himself, but he has started again. He comes in to me and says, "Let's cuddle, Momma" and I haul him over my body into the middle. And we cuddle. We cuddle all wrapped around each other with our heads all pressed up against one another and so many kisses and nuzzling noses and sighs and sleep. It is the most delicious thing I have ever experienced, new to me since nursing stopped and a profound joy.
I took him to the grocery store with me tonight. I usually go alone but our basement is slowly flooding again (THANKS, BLIZZARD) and Wes was dealing with that. He screamed bloody murder when we forced him out of the house and it required both of us holding him down to get his shoes on. True enough. But oh.... once we got there and he perked up around the berries and he was lovely by the time we got to the crackers and he asked for food and we went to the cafe and ate dinner overlooking the statue of liberty and chatted and said silly things to each other. And it was sweet sweet sweet. Since before he was born I have imagined this kind of thing, this quotidian type of activity that holds no particular significance but all the meaning in the world. Taking my son grocery shopping. Having dinner with my son. Having fun. Being silly. Sharing a life.
It is rare that I can really live in these moments. I guess the blame for that lies on some combination of my nature and the influence of the Internet, but I can't get the bad and sad stories out of my head. I am constantly ruining moments for myself. The three of us will be playing "ring around the rosey" and my brain floats above, reminding me how quickly it can be taken away. I am scared a lot. I don't show it much. But I think it.
It's good to be grateful for what you have, to never take anything for granted. But it is a fine line between gratitude and crazed obsession with negativity and death. I have always teetered there, I suppose.
Tonight we three were reading bedtime stories together. We had to pause in the middle of Daddy's seven millionth reading of Angelina Ballerina to do arabesques and grand jetes together on his rug. The sweetness took my breath away. And I fought off the scary stuff long enough to show him how to hold his arms whilst arabesquing.
