17 months, that is…
And it is a most interesting number. And a most interesting, um, adventure for Mummies and Daddies. You know who you are (or were).
It recently started with the word ‘No”. And then was followed by “Mummy, no. I don’t want to hold your hand”. This was communicated by, well, mostly grunts and, um, annoyed looks.
Someone is in the middle of asserting his independence and is not enjoying the doubts that Mumma is having regarding his decisions. Such as decisions regarding crossing a street without holding onto Mumma’s hand. I am pretty sure that all of you reading (ie my Mum and possibly my mother-in-law) realize that I am right.
Could you please tell V? Since he is currently a non-verbal Italian, he just stops in his tracks and squats down, trying to pull his hand out of mine. Since I am an emotional Canadian, I can read his body language.
I think all he wants to do is careen madly down the sidewalk, looking slightly tipsy as he bounced back and forth on our various neighbour’s lawns. I think he hears the name ‘V……’ and the word ‘No’ and reacts accordingly.
A few major temper tantrums have been introduced. Mostly involving him having a ‘fit’ (and very loose terminology is used here), throwing himself on the floor and mostly smacking his head while doing so. Which induces crying. And so then I pick him up. And then he struggles with me holding him. And then I put him down. Repeat. Repeat etc etc.
And so life is interesting.
And my Mum is laughing. I know she is, as she was laughing earlier while I was complaining about this. I figure its divine retribution. I know I was a pain in the ass. And I know M is a pain in the ass. And so the equation.
Our respective mothers are peeing their pants laughing right now. Busting a gut (in a refined manners… as I know they are lovely ladies and all). Still. So tired.