Friday, May 3, 2013

Little dictator at 13 months.

(Written yesterday, on his 13th month birthday, but I lacked the time to post it.)

In the last month, dear one, you have gone from my little prince to my little dictator. Your temper burns so hot--you're testing your new fire-breathing skills, tiny dragon. Each time you hear the word "no," it means a meltdown of varying proportions: sometimes a foot stomp or two, often throwing something, other times jello-pudding body, sometimes jello body into full floor sprawl, and when you're really fired up, a face-down sprawl with wailing and flailing.

Clearly you are so bright and advanced that you've begun training for the famed twos at age one.

Of course, it's not all tantrums. You grow more confident each day--climbing up stairs, climbing down stairs, walking so fast and with such agility it could fairly be deemed running, "talking" with new consonants showing up randomly ("doodoo," funnily enough, is a favorite this week, as well as "yep-pa-tup-pa-ba") and a new word wrapped prettily up for my birthday ("YESHHH") though you haven't repeated it since, and pointing things out to us and deeming them "THAT!".

"That!" "That!" "That!" I hear it all day. I try to help. Is that a bird? Do you see the tree? Is it the breeze ruffling the leaves? Oh, wow! A PLANE!

You go from interest to interest--how does this work? Can I put it inside something else? Can I take it apart? Can I bang it against something else, or this other thing, or this other other thing? Can I sneak it into the recycling bin when no one is looking (we've lost many a part of various toys this way).

The way to channel all your energy--the best way? the only way?--is to get you outside of the house. And, let me add, safely away from traffic, because a park is too small if you can see the roadway from the middle of it, as you next head straight for all the cars. Keeping all that fire-breathing practice temporarily at bay means taking you somewhere that I don't have to say "no" every five minutes for your safety.

But little dragon--fire and all--still you are my sweetest sweetheart. Though it smacks somewhat of separation anxiety, oh how you love your mama. How you curl into me and breathe easy. How you fit into my arms, differently at 20+ pounds than you did at 6.6 pounds, but no less well: just now there is more dangle of legs, more arm to wrap around my neck.
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