The Little Boy has been a challenge recently, no doubt. Every parent we talk to concurs that a three-year-old, though he doesn't have the mellifluous designation of "terrible two," really deserves the appellation more. It's just him trying out his will and his authority, seeing how far he can go before meeting opposition. There's been a lot of sending him back to his room.
But last night and this morning, he showed me something.
I'm in the midst of an extraordinarily busy period, with multiple essays due from my end to various people. I've been bringing a lot of work home with me, and that's after being in the office all day. Last night, I was finishing a bunch of papers and working on this weekend's talk, so I cloistered myself in the spare room, hunched over stacks and stacks. I did go out to sit with W for a few minutes, since we don't get many quiet moments together. Went back and did more work until bedtime. When I went in to check on the Little Boy, he wasn't in his bed, or under his bed, or on the floor, or in his closet, or in our bed, or in our closet (all places we've found him sleeping). Where was he? In the spare room, curled up in a pile of pillows on the floor, with a book nearby (the one I had read to him before I turned off the light). He had come in there and fallen asleep, and I hadn't noticed.
This morning, after reading him a book or two, he said he wanted to wrestle. Well, that's part of the morning routine: boy time before mom is ready to take over. When we got down on the floor, though, and I picked him up to mess with him, he went limp and just looked in my face. He didn't say a word, didn't even make a face (!), but just curled up in my arms. It was at that moment that I realized why he likes wrestling so much (hint: it doesn't have to do with the wrestling).
Well played, little boy.
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