Q: What is the stuff you put in your salad when your juicer catches fire mid-banana?
Charlie’s getting some telework in before the blizzard hits. Just wants to be safe in case we lose power. His supervisor reminded him that, while all employees are encouraged to stay safe during this historic weather event, these Central European train videos aren’t going to watch themselves.
Upon waking this morning, Charlie looked out the window and said, “Look, Mom, the grass is made of snow!” Followed up by, “Shit, I’ve got to yell ‘toot toot!’ at like three hours of steam train footage before my clients get on the road. Better put a pot of coffee on.”
Charlie will be two on the 22nd of this month. I hear tell that the twos are terrible. He’s been foreshadowing the events to come, most recently with this evening’s freakout. While helping me put away laundry, I pointed out that I was folding my banana shirt, one of his favorites.
“You don’t want me to put it away?”
“You want me to wear it instead?”
(Through sudden hiccup tears), “Okay.”
So, wardrobe change. He’s down to a simmering wimper, but still clearly upset. You know what would make him feel better, if he changed into a new shirt too, prolly! One that doesn’t have encrusted tomato seeds on it, maybe! So I changed his shirt.
Fury. Sadness. Confusion. Ennui. But mostly rage, through the wailing tears.
This goes on for a solid 20-30 minutes, unabated. Like, surely I accidentally broke his finger or something during our costume change, but he doesn’t seem to be nursing any particular injuries. He hits me in the boob a couple times, to see if that makes him feel better. It does not. I ask him to use his words to tell me why he’s upset, but there are no words. Thrashing on my bed, where I’ve taken him to calm down, his tears flow like a river. Mouth wide open, I can investigate his dental and tonsil health as he screams. (His tonsils seem fine.)
Grandad comes upstairs to see what must surely be the bookcase that fell upon Charlie and I both, rendering me unconscious and and insensible to the cries of my mamed son, who is screaming like he’s taken a hardback copy of Infinite Jest to the skull. Grandad sees me holding Charlie, both of us conscious and neither of us visibly bleeding, and gives me a “what-the-hell?” look. I explain that I think Charlie’s mad about our t-shirts. Grandad takes him from my arms, and Charlie immediately stops crying.
The problem, apart from wardrobe design, was just too much Mom. It’s the tail-end of a long weekend, after all. Charlie and his grandad are playing in the basement right now. I’m laying on the living room couch, drinking a beer. For the time being, everyone is happy.
Charlie is awesome and hilarious, but dude. Get it together, kid.
We are only shoes and diaper bag away from getting in the car to go to his buddy’s 2nd birthday. But after crying and saying “sleep!” for a while, he’s now passed out while nursing.
He doesn’t know the difference or care one way or the other, but I totally want cake, and I want two hours of hanging out with other moms while Charlie wears himself out for a healthy night’s sleep. Instead he got worn out by the primping process and absolutely cannot deal.