He’s screeching now. All out, upper octave, blow out your eardrums screeching. Sometimes it’s to get my attention. Sometimes it’s just because he’s so excited he can’t help himself. A simple cheer just won’t do. He’s throwing and yelling and slamming things around and not because he’s mad but because he’s somehow, now, a little monster. A barely three foot tall little boy monster.
I know we live in an era of thumbing our noses at gender roles but it’s so fascinating to me to watch this boy become such a BOY. And yes, I mean boy in all the typical gender stereotype ways. He his happiest digging around in dirt, watching his pink palms turn brown, holding them up, turning them over and over and then, eventually, smearing the whole mess in his little mouth. A shuddering city bus, roaring garbage truck or descending airplane overhead are siren songs to him. All activities must pause for a brief moment of acknowledgement. ‘OOOOOHHHHHHHH!’ he says, mouth curved into an awed oval, one fat, tiny index finger pointing towards the sound. ‘Yes,’ I answer, ‘a truck!’ He giggles and kicks his legs, so pleased with a world that is full of loud, large machines.
Every item is an object just waiting to be thrown. Balls, remotes, phones, blocks, cups, it’s all fair game. The other day he picked up a toy and looked pointedly at our flat screen TV, pausing for the windup. I imagined telling Mike that his beloved 50” TV had a gaping hole in it and visions of divorce papers danced in my head.
Dogs delight him. “Arf!” he says each time one crosses his path. ‘Arf! Arf!’ Sometimes, after the dogs have wandered away, he gazes at the horizon as if lost in thought, tiny ‘arf’ sounds fading into a hush.
The bathtub has become my own personal water hazard. He scoops the water into a little orange cup and flings it. The cup is lifted overhead with both arms before a dramatic pause and then, SPLASH! I’ve tried everything to minimize the fallout: I lessened the amount of water in the tub; I’ve closed the shower doors so that barely my head can peek through. And still, I come out soaked. I’ve pinned my hair back, taken my sweaters off, and now, my shirt. Today, I gave him a bath wearing only a bra and jeans.
He wants to be held. He wants to be put down. He looks up at me with both hands reaching – pick me up, mommy. I heave him onto my hip and immediately he’s writhing in my arms, diving headfirst towards the floor. Up, down, up down, all the livelong day.
He’s growing more exhausting by the day. Sometimes it feels like living an action movie in fast-forward. Everything is wrangling, corralling, and redirecting. When the toys are put away, the bath is done, the dirt wiped clean, he settles into my lap and leans his head back against my shoulder. We read a book about planes and I ‘whoosh’ the sound effect into his clean, damp hair. “Whoosh,” he repeats, nearly a whisper now. These days are exhausting. And so, so worth it.
