A few days after we returned, I noticed some miscommunication between Georgie and I. It started with stamping feet and whiny noises. Hm. Then there was the time he thought it would be funny to spit in my face. There are the sudden bursts of energy that end with a jump into a knee-high deep puddle while we are walking side by side and climbs on the kitchen counters, oblivious to the glass bottle of olive oil resting tensely on the edge. Also, the day he decided to leisurely stroll out a cafe where we were sitting and turn right. Out of sight. On a busy road. Oh and the peculiar requests in the middle of the night.
Mummy? Mummy? Muuuummm?
Yes, Georgie?
Can you get me my robe?
Yes, some adjustments are required, me thinks. He’s three now, so the game is on. I say no. He says yes. I say ‘I have a surprise for you if you go to sleep’. He says ‘I don’t want a surprise’. Me thinking ‘fuck it’.
But a good friend put things into perspective for me the other night. She said that nothing of what I was complaining about wasn’t just regular three-year-old-boy behavior! It sounded as though I was the one who should relax. Oh.
This week I switched off and spent a little more time just being with my son. We played with his toy trucks and dinosaurs. We built a railroad together and pretended we were lions at the supermarket. We rode the bus into town and scared the pigeons at the square. And it felt good.
It takes energy to be a little boy’s mother. But there honestly is nothing I would or could love more.
I promise to be back this week with regular posts.
