Blog a la Cart

We’re hand in hand strolling from her preschool to the ice cream shop. She’s singing one of her signature made-up tunes at full volume, causing smiles to explode on the faces of passing strangers. Sunny skies. Fresh air. Small town life. Me and my second born.

Mama, Cookie Sumbustion (combustion) is my favorite flavor. But I sometimes like to eat Purple Cow, too. We’ll have to look at the menu and see what they have today. You like Mud Pie but it has coffee in it and that will make me sick. But remember when Noah (friend, age 3) drank his mama’s coffee, that was so silly. My hand is so sweaty, but I like holding your hand, so I guess I like being sweaty…

I let her ramble on, quietly delighting in the explosions of thoughts and language coming out of my child who was rather delayed on the verbal front. While her pronunciation of words still needs plenty of work, she is anything but non-communicative these days.

Our ice cream rendez-vous is a happy affair. She has a full conversation with a lady on a nearby bench about ice cream flavors and sprinkle color choice. Smiles and giggles abound. When it’s time to head to the car, however, I feel her energy shift. I feel the frenetic, unpredictable quiet take hold.

I don’t want to get in the car. I want to walk home.

I explain, calmly, that our home is not a walkable distance and that we need to get into the car and get home to the dogs.

But I want to WALK home.

As her voice elevates, I know that our happy scene is about to devolve into tantrums and tears and frustration.

And so it does. And she screams and stomps and shouts and whines and cries the entire 15 minute ride to our house.

In the heart of my frustration, my mind is swirling with mean, cruel thoughts about my child, the child that only moments before I had so proudly and blissfully walked hand-in-hand down the street has turned into a demon that I cannot tolerate or begin to understand.

Why does she do this? I whisper across the seat to James, under the shit storm unfolding behind us.

Because she’s 3. Because she’s sensitive. Because she’s our Courtland.

And that is the heart of the matter. Our Courtland, who has always ridden the highest highs and lowest lows often within mere minutes of one another, is one heck of a ride.

Bed time was a similar event, though by that time in the day my patience is spread so thin that my once calm responses begin to mimic my child’s tantrums as I stomp and yell and cry in reply.

And yet, this is how we ended our evening. Her, asleep on my chest, after she’d crawled into my arms and we’d said our “I’m sorry for yellings,” “I’m sorry for not listenings,” “I love you to the moon and backs.”

The ultimate display of unconditional love, to forgive and end the day with words of kindness and gratitude. And wake up the next day, knowing you’ll brave another unpredictable shit storm and feel so gut-wrenchingly grateful for it.