Everyone always says (how do you like that for overgeneralization?) that Ryan is such a wonderful boy and that he is so sweet that they simply cannot comprehend why I say such awful things about him.
They say that.
And I do say awful things about my boy. I do. I say he's evil. I say he's difficult. I say he's traumatized me. I say he's scared me into not having any more kids (for now). Why, I may have even said all or some of those very things on this very blog. I feel like I am always bitching and moaning about raising my son, Ryan.
Aren't there any praises and good things to say about him? (Aside from what everyone else thinks?) Of course there are! I mean, he's ... bubbly and... funny and ... (looking off into nothingness trying to find words here)... we'll he's just a fun kid! I'm sure he is!
Yes, it's true that he's bitten and torn two holes in the couch upholstery, then ripped a massive, human-2-year-old-male-child sized hole in the slip cover for the self same couch. It's true that he's written on every - and i mean EVERY - wall in our (read with a grimace: rented) house. Yes, of course he's broken countless random objects. (What two year old child hasn't!) And yes, he hits and pushes everyone. EVERYONE. Oh, and let's not forget that he throws everything lighter than himself (so what's that? 35 lbs or less, maybe) anywhere and everywhere in the house. Even if you catch him about to do it and you say: RYAN. RYANNNN. RYAN!! DO! NOT! TH... and throws and breaks it anyway. Then you swear under, sometimes over your breath as you clean up the bloody mess...
So what? (Right?)
I mean, the constant whining from dawn till dusk shouldn't bother me. Him having a minor (or major) coronary whenever his fork falls or food spills on him, or his sandwich tears or his shoes won't go on right, or I forget to let HIM put the key in the door (a 30 minute exercise) and turn the key (another 10 minutes) to get out of the house when mommy's rushing somewhere, or if I take away a sharp pointy object (knives, poles, metal rulers etc.) that will no doubt puncture external and internal organs in the blink of an eye, or anything really. All that should just ROLL right off my back, right?
Thankfully, I've stopped worrying that the only foods he eats are:
cheese (sticks, preferably)
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
certain granola bars
very watered down orange or cranberry juice
shotlit milk (soy, rice or almond usually)
and the odd banana or canteloupe chunks here and there
and, of course, fries
That's it. I'm not kidding. And quite frankly, the top winners in terms of frequency and regularity are PBJ and OJ (water) and Shotlit Milk. So what if he doesn't eat chicken or vegetables?! Big deal!
Nope. I'm not worried about that!
You know what's funny? As crazy and tazmanian-devil/tornado like this boy is, he is still very much a baby who needs me more than I realise. It's not that he's not independent in his own way, but he's not like his sister who - in retrospect - seems to have grown up a bit faster. No. He needs to run and play a lot but he also needs me to be there for him just as much, if not more.
This is what I am realising. And I suspect, that's been my struggle all along: sub- or unconsciously thinking he doesn't need me as much anymore and getting upset and resentful when he did. An very, very unfortunate (what? mindset? oversight?) thing that has been unfair to us both.
So I'm re-calibrating. Tuning up the Mommy Hold Me buttons and easing off the - if i can be brutally honest here - Leave-Me-Alone/ Don't-Need-Me-So-Much-Please! knobs.
I've needed to process this for a while. Thanks for listening and not judging. Thanks for accepting a flawed, but deeply loving nonetheless Mother.