I've made a few recent observations about my first born that bear mentioning, so I thought I'd share; perhaps it will remind you of a two year old you know.
First. Children at this age seem to come with only one volume. It's like living with the OxyClean guy. Every word out of Jesse's mouth is a valiant effort to spread the handicap of hearing loss, perhaps in an attempt to help the public develop empathy for the audibly impaired. And if over time you develop an immunity to his disabling ventures and manage to achieve the skill of "tuning out," he only stiffens his resolve to attain your attention. This is often done through a fine technique known as screeching. Jesse has become a master of the art of shrieking with a voice so shrill it makes your fingernails grow faster, which is not an unmarketable skill. Perhaps he'll grow up to become an NAACP spokesman or some other liberal representative. Surely his overbearing eagerness would earn the respect of many in that field. I can only dream...
Those who speak with me fairly frequently may be old hands at discussing the topic of Violence in the Nursery. Now I firmly believe that Jesse's dad is to blame for this lovely aspect of my son's charming disposition. Every week at church I, like many parents, take my child into the nursery for a feeble attempt at a gospel lesson, but mostly for the social exposure. At this point Jesse might as well be a neglected only child as far as playing skills go, which I admit is my own fault because he certainly doesn't get as much practice as he deserves in this arena. So now I'm making a real effort to help him become better adjusted through recreational experience with other kids his age. Now, don't get me wrong; a child with more enthusiasm for other kids does not exist. Jesse's very comfortable in that environment. It is the comfort of the other children that concerns me, and quite frankly, concerns others as well- (such as nursery leaders). When he's not forcing his exuberant expressions of love (given in the form of suffocating hugs) upon the other kids, he is attacking them in other, more violent ways. Jesse's learned through almost daily conditioning that the way to enjoy another's company is to maul them into physical submission. It's an act of affection, truly, but somehow it's rarely read that way by his victims. He also tends to throw an occasional love punch or sentimental slap, thanks to his father's encouragement. All this is delivered with a genuine smile, mind you. He's a good boy, if perhaps a bit poorly trained. I make a habit of referring people to Jesse's dad for any explanation. As for now, my son may not be a top runner in the popularity contest among his peers.
He does have more endearing qualities. For instance there is almost never a more lovable moment in time than when he cries out a helpless round of "Mama!"-s after a hilarious attack on his father turns against him. And there's no sweeter an annoying habit than a midnight return from the bathroom only to find that your son has climbed into your place on the bed, apparently in a state of sleep. Or when you lean over in the middle of the night to check on the baby and a little, bed-headed, heat-seeking missile has rolled into your spot and plastered himself to your back side, steeling from you the privilege of comfort. (My good friend, Michelle first coined the "heat-seeking missile" term in this context, a perfect fit, I think. And allow me to acknowledge the fact that when she reads this I'll be endlessly ridiculed for my weakness in caving to Matt's insistence that J still has a right to occasionally sleep in our bed.)
But Jesse's idiosyncrasies are not all so innocent. He is a master of the atrocity of pre-noseblow humor. No one can laugh and fill a kleenex at the same time, and it is a painful endeavor to attempt. Those who have been victimized by this particular burn understand exactly what I'm talking about. And to them I issue this warning: my son is an expert perpetrator of the crime, so leave the room if you wish to successfully clear your congestion. I'm having to accept that in our home, this is a recurrent cruelty that's here to stay.
Whether it's his tendency to apparently conduct the music of his dreams- (we call him the "Sleeping Maestro"), his infatuation with any type of cookie, or his appreciation for, -no- preoccupation with common flatulence, our Jesse Michael can be counted on to bring you a smile, or at least a severe eye roll. Sure makes a mother proud.
P.S.- I can't finish without at least acknowledging Sweet Gabriel's fine skills. This guy has a certain unique appeal. He somehow is able radiate love while simultaneously giving you a look that says, "Hey. Jugs. Shut your yap and open your blouse, I'm hungry." Surely that is something to be admired.
No comments:
Post a Comment