On being (and becoming) a mother

Today I was given two hours of extra sleep, a mug with scribbled colours on it, and what I believe is a handprinted t-shirt. The last hasn't been opened. So far, along with the tea in the mug and the pancakes, it has been an excellent mother's day.

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As I was puttering around this morning putting things away, my child came across the dry erase activity book that I bought for him for his fourth birthday -- almost a year away, I know, but I had a gift certificate, and he found the book before I could put it away. He's fascinated by it, and has done all the math exercises in it. At the end of the math section, there's a page for you to write your own equations, and he was sitting there remembering what we had done a few days ago, muttering under his breath, "two .... plus ... one ... is .... three. Four ... take away ... four ... is .... " I didn't catch the end bit, but I suspect it wasn't correct; we haven't done the concept of zero in his adding and subtracting. We only tried that page once, but it seems enough for him -- once is enough so that if he's interested, he'll know it perfectly the next time.

Interestingly enough for a child who likes to read, he is not at all interested in the 'language arts' section of the book, but is fascinated by the math and the puzzles, especially the teeny sudoku, which he has done several times with his parents.

The first day he rested at daycare, I picked him up and asked if he slept. No, they reported, he just lay on his bed with the big kids (five year olds) and read. "And he was actually reading!" one of them exclaimed. "The whole sentences and paragraphs!" I nodded. They are wondering now if they can teach him to read in his head, since his reading out loud can disturb the other children. I shake my head, and kind of laugh, and they laugh with me because how ludicrous is it to expect a three year old to read in his head? Totally insane and not insane at all, since he can actually read and this is insane enough in and of itself.

However, his latest favourite activity is not reading or puzzles, but making up his own language. Sometimes he talks gibberish and tells me it is French, or Spanish. I have no idea when he learned that those were languages and sound different from English. Sometimes he will actually tell me what it means. "Doof! means go away and come back!" he tells me. "And Dook! means go away!" He remembers it, too, and three days later expects me to remember, as well, what "schmeltify" means. It's no wonder I get confused. I appreciate this exploration of language a great deal, but seriously, it is the most aggravating thing. I cannot now be expected to know what the hell he means by all these crazy words, and sometimes getting him to talk regular english is difficult. 

I also have a three year old who still, two years on, bangs things on our mirrored closet doors even though we have told him hundred times not to. Who decides that taking his stepping stool up onto his bed to reach something is a good idea, who demands a granola bar or other packaged food be opened for him and eats only a single bite. Who cries when he cannot have juice, but can be persuaded to drink water if we tell him it's "special dinosaur water". Who continually chases one of the cats and is surprised when the cat eventually gets fed up and scratches him. We never punish the cat. 

He still shrieks when he's frustrated, hits me when he's really angry, and demands completely unreasonable things. He tells me he will watch the Batman movie and the Dinosaur movie when he's four years old (fat chance, kid). He loves his spiderman shoes above all else, because they light up when he walks, and he asks to be carried when we walk more than three blocks, even though I am often told that he's one of the best walkers in the daycare and can easily tramp through the woods for over an hour. 

He tells amazing and nonsensical stories and has to be reminded over and over that he cannot touch the hot stove. He will eat almost anything and has finally decided that he loves yogurt above all other foods (so much so that when we are out, he asks to go to the IGA for more, even though normally you couldn't drag him there kicking and screaming) even though three weeks ago he was frequently heard to declare he hated the stuff.

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He is a complex being, full of amazing smarts and a lack of common sense that makes me grind my teeth together and want to pull my hair out. And every once in a while, when he runs ahead while we're walking to the park and he declares "I'm the leader!" and stops at the street crossings, I think, My God, it's a little tiny human being. A real one. One that looks more and more like a kid, whose head is becoming more in proportion to a little body that is losing more and more of its baby / toddler chub and becoming long and lean and able to climb fences and leap tall buildings in a single bound. And I made him.

He is less and less a part of me. Three and a bit years ago we were literally one being, and three and a bit years later he is his own person and he has experiences that I know nothing of. He has a whole part of his life that I am not involved in, which was very hard to take two years ago, but is easier now. I can't help but feel a lump in my chest knowing that that part of his world might not always treat him gently, like I do. The world he shares with me is kind and caring and protective, because I make it so. I would do anything to make it so for him, and I wish I could make his entire life that way. But I can't, so I just hope that it is as kind to him as it can be, and that any of life's small cruelties are mitigated by the kindness he knows at home.

I'm still new at this mothering thing, and I still wonder if I know what I am doing. Perhaps I always will. But like most mothers before me, I know this much is true: I think about him all the time, I try and make his world as wonderful as it can be, and I love him more than I ever dreamed was possible. This motherhood gig is the hardest thing I have ever done, and I wouldn't change it for the world.