Regular Dispatch From Behind Closed Eyes

A friend mentioned yesterday that it was always interesting when I posted during my last maternity leave. I think that this is likely an exaggeration on his part, as it was not always interesting to be me in that year but on the other hand I did a lot of baby-development-sum-uppage; sum-uppage which has, ironically, fallen by the wayside now that Trombone is actually doing things.

Not that rolling over isn’t “doing things” but it’s not really as interesting as “sings happy birthday in tune.” Or maybe it’s just that I have perspective. If he rolled over now, I’d not be as impressed. If he sang in tune at 6 months, I’d stop the presses.

OK. Anyway.

What was interesting to me about him as a little baby was how the growth and development went hand-in-hand with The Crazy. Baby’s crying all day for no reason? Oh look, a new skill. This has continued into toddlerhood, except now it’s louder. This week, Saint Aardvark and I have been completely flibbertygibbeted by our son’s ability to a) do cool stuff and b) lose his shit in a truly spectacular fashion.

Wednesday. I picked Trombone up from daycare (where he is adjusting beautifully, whether because his dad now drops him off on the dreaded Tuesday or because he just became resigned to the reality of the situation) and we came home. All the way home he chattered from the backseat about what he did all day (Down an’ Up. Down an’ Up. Whee! Eee Donut! Play water!) and when we arrived home, I allowed a viewing of his favourite movie, Neighbourhood Animals by Baby Einstein. He watched it happily, repeating all the words and predicting the next scene (mo’ horses! littttttle wabbits! run!) and when it was over, he bid it bye-bye, instructed me to turn it off and started running around the living room.

All perfectly normal.

I prepared some strawberries and yogurt for his dinner, put it in a bowl with a spoon on the table, where he sits to eat.

He began to scream.

“Do you want the strawberries?” I asked.
“UHHHH HUHHHHHHH!” he screamed.
“Well, here, let me help you…”
“NO NOPE NO NOPE NO NOPE NO NOPE!!!!!” he screamed. (note: yes, isn’t it a very cute way of indicating negative feelings? But only the first few times and more so when he is not hysterical)
“You don’t want to sit at the table,” I said.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” He pointed at the island in our kitchen.
“DERE! EAT!”
“Well,” I explained, “we don’t eat at the island. Because the chairs are not high enough. That’s why we have your chair at THIS table.”
“DERE! EAT!” Crying as though stuck with porcupine quills.
“Would you like to sit at the coffee table?”

Pause. Sniff.

“Uh huh.”
“Can you say ‘yes’?”
“Yes. Peeez.”

So I set him up sitting on his foot stool at the coffee table and he happily ate his food, face red and swollen with tears and snot and anger and I sat on the staircase and watched him and thought, wow, he is batshit crazy. And so will I be in another 6 months if this keeps up.

About an hour later, he had the same reaction to his bath.

The bath thing sort of makes sense because he had a terrible diaper rash last week that made it very painful to sit in the bath. But it sort of doesn’t make sense because he got over the worst of the pain in one day; the rash was on Thursday, he was back in the bath on Friday and has suffered no ill since.

But on Wednesday, the bath became the screaming, hellfire waters of Satan lapping at Trombone’s little toes. So Saint Aardvark dug out his earplugs and we performed a spongebath on the bathroom floor.

By last night, Trombone allowed as being bathed in the bathroom SINK was not nearly as bad.

And this morning he consented to eating at the kitchen table again.

It’s just odd, with a kid so verbal and communicative, to get the screaming and pointing and non-verbal communication that I associate with children who don’t have any words yet. I mean, he comes into the bathroom when I’m peeing, takes toilet paper from the roll, hands it to me and says, “Wipe-a-bum, mama.” (I have managed to convince him that he doesn’t need to go in and try to wipe my bum for me. At this point I can barely find my own bum.) He can undo his own overalls. If I had the time to commit to it, he would probably be potty-trained right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bragging. I don’t credit myself with any of this. I just find myself wanting to connect the dots, to figure out why there’s this sudden seeming disconnect.

Maybe his communication just hasn’t caught up to his ideas yet. I have to give him the benefit of the doubt; if he didn’t want to eat at the middle-sized table, there was probably a reason he just couldn’t express. Maybe strawberries don’t go with middle-sized tables; only large or small ones.

Like when he was an infant, I have no way of knowing. I have no scientific method to determine what I can do differently next time. I have only the tools available to me; humour, compassion, ear plugs, Saint Aardvark. Eventually, wine. And the knowledge that it is all for the good, that as my child struggles with frustration and anger, he is learning and developing normally. That his little brain is doing the best it can. As am I.