I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
August 18, 2010
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Despite appearances to the contrary, I think it’s fair to say that Bruiser was a difficult baby.
When they brought him to me in my recovery room at the hospital after his first checkup, his cries were so piercing, so unrelenting that I sent him back to the nurses for the night after holding him for just a few minutes. When we took him home two days later, I panicked as his crying continued long into the night. I’ll never forget standing in my room holding him as he bawled at two in the morning, absolutely stricken by the thought that this kid was going to be my responsibility for the next eighteen years.
The crying is pretty much all I remember of the first few months of his life. It was ear-splitting. It was mind numbing. It was neverending. Some of it was due to acid reflux, and getting him on the right medication helped, but as I got to know his little personality better, I suspected that much of his crying was simply from his frustration at not being able to make his body do what he wanted it to do.
As it turned out, I was right. With every developmental milestone Bruiser achieved, the crying lessened. Now, at the age of three, he has turned from a cranky baby who couldn’t be satisfied to a charismatic, happy boy who manages to charm everyone he meets.
When confronted with the reality that he’s still too small to do all of the things his 6-year-old sister can do, though, he’s quick to draw from the deep, deep well of his natural-born emotiveness. All that crying and carrying on during his babyhood seem to have given my son an early lesson in melodrama.
“I go too!” he shouts frantically as Punky gets ready to head out to play at one of our neighbors’ houses. He scrambles to put on his shoes alongside his sister, as if that will somehow make me decide he needs to go with her, since he has shoes on and all.
“You’re too little, Bruiser,” I say. “You can’t play outside by yourself yet, and I can’t watch you right now.”
“I not too small,” he insists. “I not a small guy! I a big guy!” Seeing the ‘no’ still written across my face, he comes closer, looking desperate. “See?” he shouts, pointing toward his toes. “Look at my feet! They not small! They big! I a big guy!”
“Your feet are getting bigger,” I say, trying not to laugh. “But they’re not big enough. I’m sorry, Bruiser, but Punky is six and you’re only three. When you’re older, you can play outside with the neighbors by yourself, too.”
“BWAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” Bruiser cries at the top of his little lungs as Punky zips out the front door, and I’m once again transported in my mind to a dark, dark bedroom at two in the morning. He stands at the window, sobbing noisily. “AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! BWAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” Frankly, it’s hard to watch, not only because of the memories it brings to the surface of my consciousness, but also because it’s almost impossible to make my ‘big guy’ understand why he’s not quite big enough to join his sister outside.
It’s also hard to keep a straight face, though, when he employs his ‘big guy’ rationales.
“I can do it,” he protests when I tell him he’s too little to play Punky’s video game. “I a big guy, see?” He puffs up his chest and speaks in a gruff little voice. “I A BIG GUY! I GOT BIG FEETS!”
Of course, the tables turn when he doesn’t want to do something that a big guy could- and should– do.
“Bruiser, can you help me carry in some groceries?” I asked him the other day after helping him to get out of the car.
“No I can’t do it,” he said dismissively.
“Sure you can,” I said. “You can carry a bag inside.”
“I can’t,” he insisted. “I just a small guy.” He slumped a bit and continued his charade in a frail little voice. “I a small guy and I can’t carry gwoash wees.” With that, he ambled off toward the front door. “I just a small guy,” he repeated sadly to himself for effect, before shooting a look over his shoulder to see if I’d taken the bait. Noting my scowl, he quickly scuttled up the steps and inside.
The kid’s already giving Daniel Day-Lewis a run for his money, that much is certain. And if one day, he happens to end up as an Oscar award-winning actor…
Let’s just make it clear, for the record, that I was the first to predict it.
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