Newsletter: Month Seventeen

Dear Hayden:

Two weeks ago, you turned 17 months old. Turns out they don’t have a greeting card for that particular milestone, so I just gave you a 75-cent box of Handy Manny valentines that were on clearance at the grocery store. Granted, Mr. Lopart no longer has a head in most of them, but I’d like to believe that’s your creative way of weeding out the losers.

I guess I would dub Month 17 as “Month O’ The Tantrum”. Sure, you did other noteworthy things here and there, but THE TANTRUM trumps all of those quadratic equations that you managed to solve. Like, during the ONE tantrum? You actually threw yourself on the hardwood floor and started kicking your feet. I thought that only happened in TV shows! I was all, God my child is SUCH a cliche! I kept waiting for Stephanie Tanner to walk in the room and talk you out of your dark place while soothing music played in the background.

Granted, you don’t throw THE TANTRUM for no reason. It’s always when I have to take you away from something you like doing, such as playing outside, terrorizing the cat, making an accidental long-distance phone call, et cetera. And let’s not even TALK about leaving Nanny’s house. The way you kick and scream when I take you to the car, you’d think I was enrolling you in Fat Camp. Or taking you to a Nickelback concert. (Hayden, no matter how badly you behave, Mommy would never EVER take you to a Nickelback concert. That’s just whack.) Anyway, I’ve come to realize that you haven’t been possessed by any sort of demon, but that this is a natural stage that kiddies your age go through. I believe they call it “Dude! Big boys do what they damn well please!” I DO have enough sense about me, though, not to give in when you’re in the throes of one of these tantrums. I may clench my jaw and start smoking from multiple orifices, but I calmly tell you “NO” and go about our business. Usually, with some distraction or bribery with chocolate or Kalamata olives (yes, you read that correctly), you cool your proverbial jets and resume your sweet demeanor. But boy during those few trying minutes ARE YOU YOUR FATHER’S SON.

On a lighter note, some of the fun things you did this month? Linguistics! I’m quite honestly thinking about renting you out to agencies who need copy repeated for commercials. Granted, you totally don’t know what 75% of the words mean, but HI, THAT’S WHAT A DICTIONARY IS FOR. You also learned to recognize foodstuffs from the boxes they arrive home in (i.e. “PIZZA!” or “TIM-MITS!”). Please don’t tell our family doctor that you know those words, okay?

You also like to bang your head off the coffee table and quip “Bunk a beaner!”, but that’s another post (and inevitable neurological journal article) altogether.

It’s been an exhausting month, with lots of tears, bruised knees, and half-eaten Timbits, but it’s all been worth it. There’s really no one I’d rather eat powdered sugar with.

Love,

Mom

Allison Empey is a 29-year-old medical transcriptionist from Ontario, Canada. She is happily married since 2006 and is having an obscene amount of fun being a mom to her 17-month-old son, Hayden. Allison is an avid amateur photographer with a penchant for portraiture. She loves to write, and to make people laugh, and has combined the two passions by regularly updating her blog. Allison’s other loves? Reading, board games, medicine, cheesecake and wine.

Check out Allison’s websites: www.flickr.com/allygalore for photos, www.galore.tumblr.com for hilarious (and modest) blog, and www.twitter.com/AllyEmpey to follow her on Twitter!