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In sickness and in health
The good news is that he is feeling much better. The less exciting news is that out of the other side of the illness has emerged an explosive ball of energy. Is it wrong to lament the sick days?
There is nothing that induces feelings of inadequacy and helplessness more than watching your child feel unwell and being powerless to do anything about it. Pale, writhing, not eating... I cried at the frustration of the situation, wanting him to suddenly declare that he was all better and ask to go to the playground (I'm not sure why, because I'm not the biggest fan of the playground with my limited mobility and dwindling energy reserves...). I just wanted my usual boy back. But now that he's come through the darkness, I'm not so sure...
You see, there's feeling better and then there is crazy. Imagine fire crackers going off inside his body and mind in a tyrade of explosions that persisted through the day. His bottom, barely sat on. His legs bruised with the consequences of hurtling himself off the furniture and throwing himself around the floor. His voice getting louder and louder and louder, rivalling the levels of a severely hearing impaired older man who refuses to wear his aids and repeats, repeats, repeats until he is acknowledged, and even when he is acknowledged. Like a run-away train transporting a ball of energy that threatens to explode at any time. That's him.
When I think about it sensibly (which does occur occassionally) he is probably simply exhausting all that energy that wasn't used during the three or so weeks of down time. Makes sense. That gives me about another two weeks of insanity. Of course, there's always the possibility that he is simply an 'active' (seriously, that term is so obviously used to describe crazy kids, in a kinder light) little boy, fullstop. And in that case, I've got to find me my own firecrackers!
When mummy knows best
It's not all the time, admittedly, but I like to think that when it comes to knowing how he's feeling, I'm one of the most well-informed on the subject.
Working in the health industry, I know that some families are labelled Difficult. Within familes there are Difficult family members who make life Difficult for the health professionals involved in their loved one's care. These are people who ask questions and take up time. They make numerous requests or even demand that things are done in a particular way.
Being a parent, I know that there are health professionals who know more than me in a particular field. They have studied, practiced and experienced. Their aim is to find answers and make sick people better. They keep you waiting, wear stethescopes, use medical jargon and print out information sheets about infant constipation.
Recently I fear I became a Difficult Parent. The anxious mum who worries excessively, asks way too many questions and lingers too long at the end of a consultation with an unconvinced look on her face. We were told it was constipation and sent home with instructions to purchase a bottle of poo softener. This tested me. My husband watched on, almost cringing as I questioned the 'diagnosis' and sought more answers. "He looks happy and energetic enough," I was reassured by the health professional. "If it was something serious he wouldn't be this chatty and active."
And while I agreed that nothing life-threatening appeared to be going on (and was grateful for this), I knew that my brave and friendly boy was not at ease. He was in pain, pale and no where close to being his usual self. Being the parent and not the expert, I didn't really know what else to say, other than "Okay, well I hope it's just constipation that came about because his diet suffered when he had this 'virus' last week." I didn't know what else to ask or request, and was certainly not in a position to demand anything further.
He's still not right and god dammit, I'm going to risk being that Difficult family member who comes back time and time again because, whilst I don't profess to know it all or believe in a true motherly instinct, I know my son, and I won't rest until I am satisfied that he is either back to full health, or on the way to being treated for whatever it is that is dragging him down. Sometimes, just sometimes, mummy knows best.
...and then there were four
At an intellectual level, he gets it. "When the baby comes, there will be a mum, a dad, a boy and a baby. That's four." Correct. At an emotional level, I'm not too sure.
I'm a pretty useless playmate these days - I can't run or jump, give wizzies or carry him on my back like a monkey. I can't sit on the floor and do puzzles or attempt to construct things with Lego without my pelvis beginning to crumble, and I think it's taking its toll. My little boy has adopted teenage attitude, BIG time, and perhaps it's an expression of frustration and the need to feel in control of something in his life. He speaks agressively, pushes, hits, flat out refuses to do things inspite of the knowledge that there are consequences (that will cause grief when the reality of them sets in). Is it attention seeking? Is the unborn brother or sister already stealing his thunder and diverting precious energy and attention from his little world?
Days together can be long and frought with conflict and it's at these times that he cries for his daddy. He's never really done that before and I think I expected to feel rejected and hurt by his demands for a daddy hug and kiss at nine thirty in the morning. Secretly? I'm thinking, 'Mate, if i could swap places with him right now, that'd be really great.' But I'm his mummy and I love him too, even if there if a baby brother or sister waiting in the wings. We're just going to have to work harder at cementing his place in the family unit and convincing him that although mummy is a pathetic playmate, he is still her big boy and she loves him very much.
Bits and boundaries
There are a few different ways to tackle genital talk with your kids. We are of the 'call them by their real names' school of education. There is no 'pee-pee', or 'front bottom' or 'poo hole' - only penis, vagina and anus. But I digress.
The baby within has been kicking, punching or head butting (I'm not sure which) for the last couple of weeks and recently it became possible to feel the action from outside touch. As a consequence I have been recruiting my husband's hand frequently, urging him to feel it and, probably unfairly, getting disappointed when he looks at me blanky and shakes his head.
This morning I summoned our toddler's soft hand and placed it where I was feeling the movement. Now, I should add that a lot of the movement has been down low... low, low, and so it was that his fingers did have to venture south of the knicker line. Struggling to keep still and concentrate on the task at hand, his little fingers did slide a little further south than intended. He quickly withdrew his hand and stated, 'Oh, no, that's your vagina. Maybe you should do it.' In between attempts to suck in air amidst the laughing, I felt proud. Proud that he had used the real word and demonstrated that he was aware of personal boundaries. That's my boy.
Number twos - revisited
Well, it seems that one child was simply not enough. Number two is on it's way and we're thrilled!
Let me retrace our steps for you (don't worry, I will be careful to avoid any unnecessary details). Something clicked towards the end of our Europe adventure and suddenly it just made sense - we would love to have another child. After being back on Aussie soil for a few weeks it was confirmed and any chance of keeping this piece of news a secret went out the door with our three year old son's enthusiasm. 'Baby? Did you say baby? Yeah, we're having a baby aren't we mum? Aren't we?'
Over the weeks he has enquired regularly about the baby and even me - Him: 'How are you both going?' Me: 'Well I think the baby is fine...I feel terrible.". He talks excitedly about taking it for a walk and sharing his bath toys. He whispers through the stretching skin of my now bulging belly: 'Hello baby. Hello! Hello...?'. He understands that I am going to blow up like a balloon, but that the grand, messy 'popping' of this balloon (as per Play School) is not going to happen until after his birthday. Time is a difficult concept for young minds. And yet despite this knowledge he has frequently forgotten about it's existence as his arms and legs are thrown wildly towards me in a state of tantrum. Let the ride begin!
Wee distractions
It can be hard to drag yourself away from a good book, a fascinating documentary or an awesome Lego-building session, can't it?
I would've thought, however, that if the inkling for urination had been and gone, the jiggling and dancing around had begun and the bladder was at bursting point, one could cease to be distracted by other things and just go to the loo. Simple really. You need to go, you go! But apparently that ain't so for my little man.
Granted, he has recently started at a new day care centre at which he is expected to independently toilet himself in the absence of prompts or hand-holding from staff. And there's lots of new stuff to play with and explore... And so, at almost all pick-ups in the last two weeks he has come home in his 'spares' and on one occasion, shoeless (urine-filled sneakers are apparently uncomfortable and a little embarrassing). We have spoken about recognising the signs of imminent wee and doing something about it (not in 5 or 10 minutes, but NOW!), but it seems, even at home, that going to the toilet is at the bottom of his priorities list. Just yesterday he was jiggling and running in circles, looking uncomfortable, but denied three times that he needed to go to the loo. Thankfully, sense sunk in before he was drenched and a few minutes later he skidded down the corridor, used his little Sesame Street step to open the toilet door and relieved himself with an audible sigh. Stubborn? Lazy? Male? I just don't get it.
Car, trucks and trains
The truth be told, I'm just not that into them.
My son can sit for hours in his room surrounded by vehicles beep-beeping, chug-chugging and of course crashing. Some of these land-based forms of transport take flight too. There's a story to be told as the cars of many makes and colours line up against the skirting and the fire engine comes sirening passed at terrifying speed. Trains become de-railed and then they all get scattered across the room as a dinosaur swoops low with a 'rahhhhhh!!!!'.
He sees a magic in it that I just don't.
I try, at times, to become actively engaged (this is opposed to my 'oh, I see' and 'golly gosh, are they okay?' non-committal responses from the couch as I attempt to wade through an article). I will get down on the rug and weave a truck through a mass of cars, saying such things as 'watch out' and 'oh no, there's going to be a crash' with as much enthusiasm as I can muster (which is, admittedly, very little). But I can't even seem to do that right. My three year old will take the truck from me with a look of disappointment and surrender, advising me that, 'No Mummy, that's not how you do it. Here, give it to me.' I'm not the most gracious recipient of criticism at the best of times, so this is a little hard to take. It does, however, serve a purpose – to reinforce that I am simply no good at playing with cars, trucks and trains. Best not to persist then.
Come play
Heart breaking, I tell you, seeing him try to befriend other children, join in with them, laugh with them. And then realising that he cannot understand them, they cannot understand him and worse still, they don't want him around.
It's fair to say he's been deprived of playmates since we've been on the road. We can be pretty good fun to play with, but Mum and Dad just aren't the same - we don't have the limitless energy, the raw enthusiasm or the ability to 'lose' ourselves at the playground. We're too tall, too wide and too sensible.
In France he found a boy of similar age who was happy to be followed around, and while language was somewhat of a barrier, it did not stop them from sharing a joke (about what, I have no idea!), pretending to drive a train and climbing a ladder side by side. He enjoyed this interaction so much that when this boy's grandfather beckoned him, we were left with a slightly confused, deflated and teary little boy. Where was his little friend going and why? I was able to explain that it was time for him to get ready for bed, and this seemed a satisfactory response.
Today, however, was different. Whilst at a public playground in Italy he found a few children who were roughly his age to follow around. For a little while they didn't really notice that he was hot on their heels, copying every move and running as fast as he could to keep up. We laughed a little to ourselves, enjoying witnessing his desire to interact and belong. Then one of the little girls became unsure of his involvement and tried telling him so in Italian. He didn't understand and so carried on. Realising that he wasn't getting the message (and probably simply assuming that he was either an annoying or really dense little boy), she raised her voice at him and shoved him in the chest. He stood there looking at her, not understanding what had just gone on and not knowing how to react. He looked towards us and we all dropped our lower lips and felt our hearts sink. It wasn't a matter of bedtime for her, she just didn't want him around.
What a deep, deep instinct and urge it is to protect our kids from harm and emotional upset. And what a massive, unrealistic aim it is to do so completely. I sense a new chapter of parental learning coming on.
Sex ed
I didn't realise that sex education started at three years of age. Still, I think I did alright.
It all came about in relation to a previous entry (Number twos). I decided to test the waters again with our toddler, see where his views about the subject were currently sitting. The conversation went like this:
Me: “Do you think Mum and Dad should have a baby?”
Him: “Yep. How do you make a little sister?” (this is clearly his preference at present and questions about a baby brother result in a look of bewilderment)
Me: “Well...Dad has to put his penis into my vagina.” Done. Told as it is.
Me again: “How does that sound?”
Him: “Yep. Okay.”, as though this was merely confirmation of existing knowledge about reproduction.
There were no more questions and there have been none since. I guess it just made sense.
Leaking van
Telling the truth is an important lesson for children to learn. Practising what you preach is a good one for the parents. Taking your toddler for a walk while Daddy engages in adult negotiations is the best lesson yet.
We are trying to sell our campervan. We had someone come to look at it. All we had to do was sit nicely on the bed (it poured outside) and play Uno while my husband did the talking. Sounds easy enough, only my 3 year old wanted to communicate with Eric and the first thing he said, with all the animation of an exciting tale of adventure was, “The van was leaking! The van leaking when it was raining all day at the other caravan park and...and...and it was leaking on mum and dad's bed!” I froze, panic written all over my face and because I didn't respond immediately to his honest account, he continued, in search of reinforcement. “It was leaking, wasn't it Mummy? Wasn't it?”
My husband pitched in, with a nervous laugh and a mumble, “Yeah, well we should close the window next time.” Our son looked at us, baffled. How on earth did rain get on Mum and Dad's bed through the window? Could rain really turn corners and come in sideways? Hmm...
Eric hasn't called back.
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