Two Much

     I haven't written in a few weeks, owing to the fact that my brain has been unhinged by Monster.  For any who haven't been following my blog; Monster is my son, Ryan.  He earned his nick name at the age of 15 months, when he began having nuclear meltdowns (worse than regular tantrums- these are the Chernobyl of tantrums) and turning my house into a pile of rubble on a daily basis.  Monster will be two at the end of May.  The tantrums have only escalated and Monster has gotten stronger.  Last Sunday, he put on a mighty display for everyone in the hallway at church.  All eyes were on me as I walked toward the exit door wrestling a kicking, screaming, flailing, purple faced monster a third of my size.  I did this all in heels, I might add.  When we arrived home, I put Monster down for a much needed nap and sat down to rest my rubberized arms and blistered toes.  I realized that my two-year-old was beating me up, not only mentally, but physically as well.  In the past few months, I have been hit, pinched, pushed, kicked and bitten (ok- so the biting was only because I had on cherry red finger nail polish which Monster thought was a piece of candy).  Sounds like a case of domestic violence to me.  It's too bad the police can't arrest two-year-olds.  I think they could prove a valuable asset when it comes to prisoner interrogation.  Who needs water boarding when you have toddlers?  I think hardened criminals or prisoners of war should be tied up and locked in a room with ten two-year-olds, one binky, one ball, one sippy cup and one cookie on the condition that the toddlers be removed from the premises only after the prisoner has handed over the desired information.  They wouldn't last one hour.  This could also be a good solution to the teen pregnancy problem.  Forget the fake pregnancy belly.  Lock a fifteen year-old in a room with those ten two-year-olds, and she won't look at a man until she's thirty.  Last Friday, Monster cried the entire day.  I exercised to the sound of screaming.  I showered to the sound of screaming.  I made lunch to the sound of screaming and the regular rhythm of Monsters tiny fists pounding the backs of my legs. I folded laundry as Monster screamed and contorted his body into positions no Yogi master could have managed.  I made dinner to the sound of muffled screaming mingled with the sound of Florence and the Machine.  At intervals during the day I had picked Monster up and rocked with him, danced with him, read to him.  I had given him pain medicine and massaged his legs and tummy.  I had turned on lullabies.  I had taken him outside.  These tactics consoled him momentarily, but the second I put him down to go about my day, the demons were unleashed.  During this time, many thoughts crossed my mind.  I wondered how badly it hurt when Van Gogh cut off his ear.  I wondered how effective exorcisms were and how much they cost.  I wondered how long a human could scream before losing their voice.  I wondered how long a human could listen to screaming before losing their mind.  By the time Dirk got home, I was sitting on the couch staring vacantly at the wall while Monster lay screaming on the floor in front of me.  "Rough day?", he said.  I opened my mouth to answer and all that came out was a series of incoherent, blubbering sobs.  That night after the kids were in bed, I ate an entire XL Symphony bar in two minutes.  Earlier that day, I had shoved two Little Debbie Zebra Cakes in my mouth two minutes after telling the older children they couldn't have any sweets before dinner.  This was the day I realized I am an emotional eater.  I could be gaining some weight this year, though it could be offset by the calories burned wrestling Monster.  The next day, Dirk had family in town for his nephew's baptism.  That afternoon, we had a luncheon at the park.  Dirk's mom offered to stay with Monster while he napped so that Dirk and I could enjoy the luncheon together.  I was halfway out the door before she finished her offer.

      I sat on a blanket in the cool Spring grass letting my skin soak in the sun's warmth and watching the cotton clouds hurry across the sky.  I felt recharged.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, the sound of screaming still reverberated, but I had heard enough other pleasant sounds that I was no longer considering pulling a Van Gogh.  I'm not sure if God realized I couldn't handle much more, or if Monster finally realized that his tantrums were ineffective after an entire day of me ignoring them, but , whatever the reason, he has, mercifully, been much happier the past few days.  I have been able to enjoy his gap-toothed grin and ridiculously contagious belly laugh.  Today, there was a near nuclear meltdown when the "beepy" (aka Binky) was misplaced.  By the time the beepy had finally been located, Monster was verging on hysterical.  I sat on the floor of his room, handed him the beepy, wrapped him in his favored tattered blanket and rocked back and forth as his sobs began to dissipate.  A pair of his tiny white tennis shoes sat in the middle of the floor.  As I glanced at them, a wave of something like nostalgia gut-punched me.  I have mentally rolled my eyes as older women have told me to cherish these days because someday I will miss them.  I have had urges to bring Monster to the homes of these women during one of his worst tantrums and give them a good earful of just what they are missing.  But as I sat there, staring at the tiny white shoes and inhaling the scent of Monster's sweat-matted, tousled locks, it hit me.  I would miss this someday.  I don't know that any amount of years can blur my memory enough to make me miss the ear-piercing, mind numbing screaming.  But I will certainly miss that little boy/ wet dog smell, those slobber kisses, that irresistible chuckle and that heart-melting gappy grin.  I will miss the way his entire face lights up when he says, "mama", and how he stumbles into my open arms, his tiny white tennis shoes clunking across the wood floor.  Oh yes, I will miss those things.  And so, I resolve to try harder to cherish the little moments so that one day, when my teen aged Monster slams the door in my face and tells me he hates me, I can remember a time when he loved me better than anyone in the world.