I love you. Let me repeat that so you really hear it. I love love love you.
But, I have to tell you something (and I want you to know that I say this out of the-above-stated love): You are DRIVING. ME. CRAZY.
Like driven-to-the-edge-flailing-on-my-tippy-toes-waving-my-arms-in-circles-to-maintain-my-balance-on-the-edge crazy. (OK, so that didn’t really sound like it was so much “out of love.” Sorry. Let’s get out of it.)
You stop when I need you to go; you run when I need you to slow down; you stand when I need you to sit and when I need you to stand? You collapse on the floor like the top scoop of a melting ice cream cone. Plop. And it’s just as tricky to scrape you back up off the floor. I say yes; you say no. I say please; you say something to the effect of, “Blah blah blah baby diaper!”
Some days I’m closer to the edge than others. Some days I can do all the right things… diffuse our stand-offs with humor, tolerate a little more freshness, maintain an admirable degree of patience, etc. and I am able to keep a respectable distance from that precipice.
But other days? Not so much. And I am sorry about that.
But you push, buddy. You push and push and push and then JUST when I’m about to topple over into the abyss of really losing my shit, you look at me with those giant, blue seaballs and they open so wide that I can see all of you – mischief and silliness and laughter and more than a little bit of crazy – and I wonder if maybe you’re just trying to figure it all out.
Maybe you’re just trying to figure out how much you can push. How much we can take. How to make yourself heard. How to gain some control. How to get some attention. How to differentiate yourself from The Loud One – who gets to do everything first – and Happy Dude – who gets to do everything cute.
Maybe that’s it? Or maybe I’m giving you too much credit. (I do worry that this is what parents of brats tell themselves.)
But I don’t think so. Because bottom line, I know you’re awesome.
I think all of this crap (and by “all of this crap,” I mean, “all of YOUR crap”) – the freshness, the defiance, the physical aggression – is going to slowly
disappear dissipate decrease. Or at least you’re going to get a grip on it. I think we’re going to get a grip on it. We’re going to get out of it. Hopefully soon.
I can’t wait for that day. Because the Nibbit, you are funny and sweet and smart and affectionate. And I can’t wait to be able to play card games and ride bikes and build forts with you without having to take deep breaths and count to ten, physically pry you off of your brother or say any of the following:
- Please keep your hands to yourself.
- Do not tell me what you’re NOT going to do.
- I don’t want to ask you again.
- If you can’t be a good listener, I will have to [remove some type of screen you’re your life for the next xx period of time.]
I write this today because, believe it or not, I don’t want to complain about your behavior anymore. To you, to Dad, to Aunt Lori or to any other mother that will listen. I’m tired of venting about you. So now, I’ve gotten it all out there. And now, I’m going to try to stop. I’m going to try to coast through the rest of this phase (please Lord, let it be a phase) with as much patience as I can possibly muster.
I’m going to focus on your awesomeness instead of your, well, Nibbitness.
I’m going to take a lot of deep breaths.
I’m going to step back from the edge. Because trust me, I don’t like to be there.
All of that said, if this is indeed “just a phase,” it would be really fantastic if you could maybe just… end it?
Love you to outer space on a rocket ship like the one we saw on YouTube and back,