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.
September 29, 2010
>Don’t let the sweet pictures fool you.
From the very moment my son was born, he was, shall we say, a handful.
Or… a Monkey Butt. You decide.
If you’ve been reading my blog over the years, you might recall my son’s early months, marked by his sleeplessness and endless crying. Later came the tantrums. Then the hitting. And shouting. And the subsequent endless trips to the naughty corner.
Each year, he becomes slightly easier to manage, but the moment he conquers one issue, it seems like a brand new one crops up in its place.
Right now, for example, he’s waking up every single night at 2am and loudly demanding milk. And then he loudly instructs us to open wide the door to his room, and to leave on the hall light. And then he loudly demands to sleep in our bed. And then he loudly bellows for his sister across the room to WAKE UP. And then he plays “SURPRISE!” with his blankie (loudly, of course). And no amount of shushing or whispered warnings will shut him up until he’s good and ready to go back to bed on his own.
Also? He bites his sister. He insists on putting small toys in his mouth when no one is looking. He makes Messy Marvin look like a neat freak. He absolutely refuses to go pee pee in the potty. I realize I’m making him sound like the ultimate problem child, but the truth of the matter is that all of these things are overlooked– by everyone. The kid is universally adored. Why?
Because despite the shouting and the naughtiness, he is filled to the brim with love and affection.
He gives endless kisses and hugs. He marches right up to strangers wherever we happen to be, leans casually on their knees if they’re seated, and proceeds to have very earnest conversations with them before introducing them to all his family members. He tells his father, sister and I that he loves us a hundred times a day.
“I love you Punky,” he’ll say every 15 minutes or so when they’re in a room together. Often, she ignores him, causing him to stop whatever he’s doing and walk over to stand in front of her.
“I love you.”
Nothing.
“I LOVE YOU, PUNKY.”
“Oh, Mommy,” Punky frets, “do I have to say I love you back every time? He says it SO MUCH!”
I tell her she does.
I guess it makes my son feel good to say ‘I love you’– and to hear it said back to him.
Oh, who am I kidding? I know it feels good. In fact, there’s not much that feels better. And Bruiser has gotten this important life lesson so down pat that he’s now expanding his repertoire, saying ‘I love you’ to anyone now who makes him feel good inside.
“Jom FUM!” he yelled at a high school soccer game early last week, pointing at one of my stepdaughter’s teenage friends, whom he adores.
‘Jom Fum” smiled and waved from across the bleachers. Bruiser hugged himself with glee and jumped up and down.
“I LOVE YOU, JOM FUM!” he shouted. “I LOVE YOU!!” He punched gleefully at the air in a physical approximation of his feelings.
Jom Fum laughed. “I love you too, Bruiser!” he shouted back.
Then, a few days ago, a friend of mine watched Bruiser while I went to my daughter’s field trip.
“How did it go?” I asked when I came to pick him up.
“It went great,” she said, smiling happily. “I think he had a lot of fun. He told me he loved me.”
“Bruiser was so sweet tonight,” his favorite babysitter reported a few evenings later. “He called me back up to his room after I’d put the kids to bed and said ‘I love you, Stacy.'”
It’s amazing to see the impact that three simple words fervently uttered by my small son have on the people around him. They are charmed. They are happy. They are loved, they really are, and it’s a such a nice feeling, isn’t it?
It makes me wonder how this world would be different if we all said “I love you” more often. How many minor transgressions would be forgiven, how many mistakes overlooked.
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