Four is full of silliness, of silliness past the point of amusement and tolerance. Four is meaningless syllables repeated loudly ad nauseum. Four is willful defiance just because he can. Four is mercurial tempers, bewildering change from happiness to raging fury over something seemingly inconsequential. Four is endless whining even when reminded not to. Four is ever "forgetting" the rules. Four is bad guys and death and lasers and acid in faces.
I want to love four. I want to be patient with four. I want to enjoy it for it's own sake. I want to enjoy him, my little boy, my wonderful child.
And I can't.
And I feel so freaking bad about it.
It's partly the tiredness, the new baby tiredness. It's partly that I'm seeing a side of him -- the aggressive, play-fighting, rough-housing side -- that I can't relate to. It's partly missing the little boy who was, who wanted to read books with me more than anything else, who now wants to play superheroes and villains. It's partly a war within myself ... Yes, I can tolerate silliness, but he also needs to learn, to know where the lines are, and when he crosses them.
I guess the facts are that he's changing. He's not that little boy I pictured, bookish and serious. He is who he is, and our relationship will change no matter how much I wish it didn't.
And partly realizing that being a "good mother" isn't about being a favourite, a friend, a playmate. I'm his guide, it's my job to get mad and show him how things should be. It sucks sometimes to be the policeman, but it's part of being the Good Mother.
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