No one would ever accuse me of having been a quiet child. No one would ever accuse me of having been a mellow child. I have, and have always had FEELINGS. ALL OF THE FEELINGS!
When I found out I was having a boy child, I expected that he would be more temperamentally matched to his father–his father being a boy and all. I did not expect to find myself staring down at myself as I, in tiny boy form, tried to explain the weight, and the heft, and the width, and the breadth of my FEELS.
Darice, Irene and I were emailing today, and I remembered one of my favorite Baby Thor stories.
When he was 2, he ran up against the same separation anxiety a lot of toddlers face. Daycare was a necessity for us, so every day I would drop him off, and every day we would go through a ritual of goodbyes. But somewhere around 2.25, he’d had enough of that.
After a display of histrionics that would win an Oscar, I managed to get away from him and run out the front door.
Now, a lot of the children in his class would run to the front window of the school and cry for their mothers. It was just a thing. And, that day, it became his thing (and remained his thing for several months.) But, where other children would stand there and cry, or stand there and wail for their mothers, mine ran to the window, slapped both palms flat against the glass and howled, “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? WHY? WHY??? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO MEEEEEEEE?”
I mean, Nancy Kerrigan didn’t set up such a cry.
So. I want you to picture this sweet face:
And I want you to picture it pressed up against a window, wailing so loudly that I can hear him clearly–and hear him all the way to my car. “MAMAAAAAA! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? WHY? WHY? WHY?”
And I dare you not to laugh. Because I laughed.
To this day, I have no idea where he came up with that phrase. It’s not something anyone in our family says. Lightning McQueen never said it, and Curious George couldn’t speak English.
All I can guess is that somewhere in his genetic makeup, there is a chromosome marked for drama that generates its own dialog.
When he’s old enough, I’m teaching him lines from The Merchant of Venice.
The Outside Lane 