When in doubt, blame Star Wars.
At our son's 6-month appointment, the pediatrician informed us that our son would soon begin demonstrating a new emotion: frustration.
Surely not my baby? We have the perfect baby. Seriously, perfect.
In fact, I often down-played my son's perfection so as not to make other moms jealous. But the reality was that my son slept through the night at an early age, he was never colicky, he hardly fussed unless obviously tired or hungry, and he was content in most all situations. So when my his 9-month appointment rolled around and still his 'frustrated' ego had not emerged, I thought, "yep, that's my baby - Perfect!"
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.
However wrong I was.
Yes, my baby is still perfect.
Perfectly FRUSTRATED!
Somewhere between months ten and eleven it was as if, out of nowhere, a mini demon emerged. Don't get me wrong, my son is still the joy of my heart (if you follow this blog, you know how delightfully darling he is). But there is a side of him that would make anyone, even the Dalai Lama, turn inside-out.
Here are just a few of my son's triggers:
- When his push-toy truck hits a wall or piece of furniture and can no longer push forward anymore, my son absolutely loses it.
- When he crawls inside the buffet table and then finds himself stuck because that's what curious boys do, he turns blood-red and smoke begins pouring out of his nostrils.
- When he discovers a favorite toy in his toy box but simply can't seem to reach it, he begins sweating and making screeching noises that only the dog can translate.
- When the food just can't reach his mouth fast enough (because my hand attached to the spoon can only move so quick), he tenses his head in such a way that even his ears begin to wiggle.
Ahh, yes, my precious son.
Not even a year-old, and already he has discovered the dark side (I blame his father's obsession with Star Wars).
Dear Lord,
What is a mother to do? I can help him change the direction of his truck, or rescue him from the buffet table, or make his coveted toy more accessible, or switch to bionic feed-speed during lunch, but at one point do I let the little guy simply work it out for himself?
And what's worse is when he begins his fit of rage and realizes that I am not going to rescue him, he gives me such a pitiful look of confusion.
Even worse, at times he gives me a look of defeat.
Oh, how it breaks a mother's heart. And the worst part is, people tell me that two will be worse and three is the new two, so I suppose I'm doomed. But until I figure out what to do with my roid-ragin' baby (An exorcism? I'll do anything!), I'm banning all Star Wars movies and Pink Floyd albums from this house.
Amen.
