The Kid Payback
“I couldn’t find anything on the internet about the probability of a child acting as their parent(s) did when they were a child. I’m sure there’s a study out there somewhere…
When I was a baby, I cried. A lot. Could be someone holding me that I didn’t want holding me; could be I felt like crying. My mom has said countless times that the daycare workers nicknamed me ‘Mr. Green’. Whether the nickname was given out of respect, fear, or annoyance, I don’t know.
On a related note (and this is just another of my irrelevant opinions, questions), what do you think is more dangerous — free-moving lightning, or contained lightning? I’m not about to make the argument that lightning is a living thing, but it is a natural occurrence.
A beautiful and dangerous one.”
My little goblin, Mai’ Elle, has been a moving lightning ball since she could open her eyes, smile, and move her tiny limbs about. Mystical creature or not, I don’t believe goblins can change into lightning. Maybe it’s better to describe her as a goblin trapped in a lightning ball. A ball that holds lightning would just be trapping what shouldn’t be trapped. No one wants to be around when the inevitable happens.
Here’s the setup: a goblin trapped in a lightning ball wakes up; her mom and dad are already awake, prepping for the day…
“Aaaannnnndddd fighters (yes, fighters)! Parents, ready with the diapers and wipes? Pediasure poured and breakfast on the stove? Are you alert enough to not have your eardrums potentially shattered by shrieking?
And now, the goblin. Ready to cooperate with a smile on your face? Hungry enough for breakfast yet patient enough to not cry out in a fit until it’s ready?
On your mark… get set…”
Let’s cut the shit.
Ellie is going to wake up happy some mornings, smiling, laughing, playing with her mom. Some mornings she’ll be crying as soon as her eyes open and cuss us out in baby talk. After she’s washed, changed, and dressed, she’s walking out of the room. On a Really Good Morning she’s smiling and calling for “Da Da”, letting me know it’s time for morning juice, almond milk, or PediaSure (and God be gracious towards me if I keep her waiting too long). On these mornings she’s calm, playing and walking around, or in her highchair enjoying her morning beverage while her breakfast is fixed. On other mornings she’s walking around cutting her eyes at me without hesitating to voice her frustration at how long it’s taking for breakfast to be fixed, and the morning beverage is just something inside a cup she’s going to slam against the floor. Seated with breakfast in front of her, we have ten, maybe fifteen minutes to finish getting ready for the day.
Her mom gets dressed, preps Ellie’s things for school and hers for work (and thank the good merciful God for her working at the same school). I’m washing dishes, loading laundry, taking out trash, etc. On a Really Good Morning Ellie finishes breakfast completely. On others she eats what she wants, tosses the rest on the floor, and I end up finding pieces of turkey bacon and scrambled eggs in her highchair.
Then there’s her mom doing her hair, which is two sides of a war ceasing gunfire to yell and cuss each other out because neither side will surrender. Once that’s done, and I’ve cussed her and her mom out in my head (yeah, I cuss ’em out. You do the same with your family. Don’t lie), there’s the running. Running to pull books from her library and scatter them across the floor (to read later?). Running to pull her walker out and push it around in the kitchen, the bedroom and bathroom inside it, the living room, wherever she can get it. Running to pick up random toys, remotes, PlayStation controllers, anything, and throw them on the floor. Running just to run around happy and giggly, being her free self. Getting her day going with a dose of positivity, even after all the hell that went on only minutes before.
Then they’re both off, and I’m left behind at home. I finish whatever cleaning I was doing, meditate, workout, eat breakfast, make my coffee, write (finishing my medium-roast Keffa as I’m typing this up), relax (maybe), do a little more cleaning, then go to work.
I owe my parents every apology available.
Parent or not, you saw all of what I detailed in your head. What did I do? Hell, what terror did any of us (parents) enact on our parents as kids that prompted karma to wait all these years and give us our due (on top of the usual adulting frustrations)?
“Just you wait until you have your own…”
We’ve heard it from a parent or adult family member after doing something we shouldn’t have. Granted, at this point we’re past the Infant/Toddler stage and in the Idiot Teen stage (oh what craziness lies in wait for me if karma is keeping Ellie’s behavior stages in line with mine). The cussing is a bit louder when you’re a teen. But a teen — absent those special cases, of course — understands better and will at least be quiet while getting their ass chewed out for doing something dangerous or objectively stupid. A baby halfway understands what they did was wrong but doesn’t have a single fuck to spare when you tell them. And they talk (cuss) back in their own language.
“Lightning moves in a coordinated, easy path.”
Fast forward to me coming home after work. On a Really Good Day I get home before nine, maybe a little after eight. Best-case scenario has me home when Ellie’s nearing Knockout mode and I get to be the arms she falls asleep in. On other days I get home late, a little after ten, hopefully before half past eleven, to her and her mom asleep…
“Get out!”
Ellie often says this. It’s her favorite thing to scream when she isn’t asking for one of us, saying na-na (nope), or screaming just to scream. My belief is she’s tired of us. She’s had a long day or wants the room to herself. She’ll call us when she needs a change or she’s hungry. And not wanting to further frustrate her, we leave her right there, in whatever room she’s in, alone. Before you alert child services, I’m lying. We keep by her side. I’m no child therapist, but I’ve studied this — I’ve witnessed it first-hand. Something happens to her.
She begins to love us! She gives the best hugs (these hugs are mostly her arms wrapping around our neck. She could kill us if she wanted to), she climbs over us, she laughs and calls for us. She throws playful hits now and then, but we put an end to it quick… sometimes. She doesn’t want to leave our hold until she’s ready. Can’t put her down; can’t try manipulating her with a toy. The way to get her down is by offering her food, or by simply having food out where she can see it. She’ll sit in her highchair expeditiously (my big word for today) or stand there and scream until you feed her. Or steal it (she snatched a piece of toasted Asiago Cheese Bagel out my hand one day at Panera Bread). After deciding whether she likes the food or hates it, you can pretty much, as Ellie says, get out. Do not try feeding her while she’s in her highchair. She’s got this. When she’s ready to get out of her highchair she’ll call for you. Turn Bluey on before you leave.
I don’t mind her waking up in the middle of the night. I don’t. I really don’t. But I do take soft steps, and if I’m watching TV, it’s with the volume low. None of this stops her from waking up. And before I say it, yes, I know I should pat her back, hold her long enough to have her fall back asleep, and put her back in her crib. But this blog is a safe space, and some nights I just don’t feel like it because I’m that tired or frustrated or both. So, fuck it, she gets in the bed with us (and even that doesn’t guarantee her sleeping soundly the rest of the night).
In her crib or our bed, Ellie looks the exact same way when sleeping: at peace, safe, content. And now and then I look at her, wondering…
(What the hell did I do as a kid to deserve this shit?)
To be clear, my daughter is not some hell-bound demon I drew the short straw on spending the rest of my life watching over. She’s a beautiful, intelligent, funny, energetic little angel that mirrors her parents’ attitudes and ways (more her mom than me). I just happen to believe God (or Allah, Buddha; whatever name you use in your faith) has a wonderful sense of humor in the way they have the things we did as children — some so early in life we can’t remember — come back to us as the precious parts of our hearts we can’t do without.
“After lightning comes…”
Maybe I sound like I’m complaining or having second thoughts on parenthood. Maybe you understood everything I detailed and you’ve waved your hands in testimony at least twice — thank-you for keeping me company in the struggle. I’m not having second thoughts on parenthood; I’m in no way complaining (okay maybe I am, but it’s warranted. You know it is) because good sleep is a blessing. Truly.
Waking to the cry of my favorite tiny goblin is a blessing. Truly. Lifting her in my arms and holding her, knowing she finds safety and rest in my arms on her way to sleep is a blessing. I can take the kicks in my back. I can take having to sleep still to not wake her and give the impression it’s play time. I can deal with her still waking up and crying out for something to drink. I can do it all over again the next day, because watching the precious part of my heart grow, learn, and become her own person, is a blessing.
Truly.
