I keep going back to that picture of Griffon from my last post. Partly because he looks so damn kissable. Love those sweet little cheeks and chin and that sleepy face. I *love* that child. Like with cute little hearts and pink arrows. Love love.
But.
I do not like his current incarnation.
Let me tell you a story about Griffon.
Before Griffon transformed our family into bethfive, a happy little hippie commune (because he did, I’m telling you, it was all love and holding hands after he was born), we didn’t even know if we wanted another baby. I was fine (sort of) just plodding along with my boy and my girl. I could have gone either way (sort of) on the issue of conceiving another.
(This is not strictly true, of course. I think I told myself this at the time, but I don’t think I actually believed it. The ugly head of procreative desire probably would have reared itself at some point. But not then.)
Anyway, when I got pregnant, I still could have gone either way. I mean, the pregnancy was not unplanned, but I took a sort of Zen attitude about the whole thing. I had lost two pregnancies between Kieran and Anneke, and I knew another loss was a possibility. I tried to stay as objective and detached as I could at first, focusing on the biology of what was happening instead of any possibility that a real human being might eventually emerge from my vagina and have to have a place to sleep and someone around to feed and diaper him.
I grew more and more attached to the idea of adding a new being to our family the longer I stayed pregnant, of course, and by the end, I was totally invested. Even so, I was unprepared for what happened when he finally joined us.
I probably didn’t take my eyes off him for at least the first six months. He was perfect, cherubic even. Any worry I’d had about adding another child to the mix flew out the window, along with any hope of owning a sedan in the next 15 years. Our family was made closer, fuller, more loving, with his addition. Everything seemed to click. We fell into a routine, and I felt happier than I ever had. I loved him immensely, and I loved our new family.
And it wasn’t just me. *Everyone* loved Griffon. Everyone. Because he was such an easygoing, sweet moon of a child. He loved people. He loved smiling. He was just completely happy to be taken care of, content to watch his brother and sister play, equally as happy eating as he was taking a bath. Ea-sy.
And then something happened. Something sinister.
I don’t know when, exactly, but it started with the whining. I’m sure we probably thought it was cute at first. We were probably all, “Oh look! Little Griffon’s asserting his independence. What a curiosity.”
But I honestly can’t remember because I’ve sustained so much brain damage since then. What with his constant blows to my head and body, all the blood-curdling screaming, and my constantly recounting the laundry list of things “we don’t” do (hit, kick, push, throw, scream, flail in a storm on the floor, …), I’m exhausted. And maybe you’re nodding and saying it’s just the terrible twos, but I can’t hear you because my eardrums are bloody and collapsing.
I’m no parenting expert *snort*, but I hear this behavior may have something to do with our newest little uniter, his very existence the consequence of the joy Griffon has brought us and the ease with which Griffon was integrated into our little family. How’s that for irony?
No matter the reason, everything Griffon does these days makes me want him to grow up faster. How awful is that? I’ve completely abandoned the Zen attitude I took with him in pregnancy.
And the stupid part is, I have four children. I know how lucky I am to have these four lovely wonders in my life, and I know how quickly these years pass. But I still wish them away.
Things *have* to get better with him, though. Have to. I want my little bear back.
