Tempest

It always starts the same way. A cheerful, smiling toddler is transformed in the blink of an eye to one whose little feet dance out a frenzied beat on the carpet, whose face contorts with the frustration of being misunderstood, whose arms swing out wildly. All this because a toy wouldn't stay balanced on top of a precarious pile of books, or because I cut up his fruit when he wanted a "big piece," or because Other Baby has a toy that Luke really wanted, but wasn't allowed to snatch.

I believe he thinks that if he could just make me understand what he wanted, he'd get his way. That if I could just understand how important it was to him to have that toy at THAT EXACT MOMENT, I might not stop him from taking it from Other Baby. That if I could just understand that he didn't want the blue bus, he wanted the purple bus and now that he can tell the difference, he isn't willing to settle for the wrong one, then I'd work harder to help him find the purple one. That if I just saw how much superior a WHOLE sandwich was to a sandwich cut in half, I would never pick up a knife again.

I believe this because I often think that if I could just explain to him why he can't have what he wants, that he'll understand and I'd get my way. That if I could make him see that his brown pants match the outfit better than the green, he wouldn't fight me on the issue. That if I could impress upon him the fact that taking toys from people does not engender good will, he'd wait more patiently. That if he would just grasp the concept of gravity, he could save us both a lot of frustration.

We're not so different, he and I.