As I left my office yesterday morning, turning the corner that led to the lobby and towards the set of escalators on my way to the coffee shop, I heard a familiar sound.
Rather, I heard a sound that will soon be familiar.
As I gently rode the electric staircase towards the floor below, I saw the source of the noise.
A little boy in the midst a full blown tantrum. He was sprawled on the floor, kicking and crying, whining and screaming.
And his pregnant mother just kept walking.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed a little to myself.
I wasn’t laughing at the mother and I certainly do not find tantrums particularly funny. I guess I just understood. I guess I just thought the tantrum was kind of cute.
Holy heck! Did I just call a tantrum cute? Remind me of this in a few months, and I’m sure I’ll be attempting to yank this foot out of my mouth.
Cameron is just starting to learn the art of the tantrum. He hasn’t quite figured it all out yet, but he is testing the waters.
And it is friggen’ hilarious.
Crying is still a reasonable response for a little boy who doesn’t have words to express his needs and desires. But stopping, dropping and rolling to his belly is really only appropriate in a fire. And the anguish of not having a cookie does not equate to the severity of a fire.
But seriously, when my little boy falls to his belly, cries a few notes, and then lifts his eyes to meet mine to gauge my reaction – I can’t help but chuckle. My little boy is becoming a serious manipulator.
A seriously cute manipulator.
And the the fact that he isn’t fooling me is priceless.
Actually, let me backtrack. That last statement was naive.
Because, who am I kidding? I am already being manipulated. I know that I am being manipulated when my little boy’s cries turn to screams after being laid in bed and I am quickly by his side. After sleep-training him, Cameron has promptly awake-trained us, realizing that we respond to a scream much quicker than we do to a whiny cry.
I know I am being manipulated when those big green eyes stare pleadingly into mine, asking for just one little cookie from the box sitting right there on the counter.
I know my baby knows how to tell me what he wants and I know that I often want to comply. He’s communicating with me, even though he can’t do much other than point and say “da!”
But that falling to the floor, flailing around thing – that’s not going to work, Buddy.
Not often, at least.
