It must have been December or maybe January as we inexplicably when I cradled my arms around my rolly-polly belly and said tearfully to The Daver words I would yearn to eat later.
“I just” *sniff, snort, hiccup* “I just want him to love me best.”
(there is, of course, a reason for this. Autistic kids, The Internet informed me, are sometimes like Siamese Cats. They choose a person and that is Their Person. Everyone else doesn’t matter. Ben chose several people, of whom I am not #1.)
(can you blame him?)
It was a prophetic choice of words, and it made me wish that maybe if I said things like, “I just want to poo off 60 pounds this morning” or “I just want to have an unlimited supply of Diet Coke,” it would magically come true. Suddenly I would awake one morning as a swim-suit model, chugging gallons of Diet Coke.
Sadly no, but do any of you remember the Monkey Paw story? Based on the blank looks I get when I reference it, I’ll give you a brief overview: this magical monkey paw was given to a couple who had recently lost their son, with it, they could make three wishes. But because I don’t read the fine print, all I can remember is the wife, wishing their son would come back to life.
He does, but as you might expect of someone who had just been sleeping the eternal sleep, he wasn’t who he was. The moral, of course, is “be careful what you wish for.” Maybe I should have heeded this advice. It might have spared the waning fragments of my sanity.
But I said it, and I got my wish in spades. I’m sure, of course, this was merely magical thinking, but it worked. And my son was born a Momma’s Boy ™. He nursed every hour for 12 months, spent the first 11 months of his life waking up overnight 3-5 times, and recoiled in horror when anyone else dared to try and touch him. Including, of course, his poor father.
While it might sound perfectly lovely to some, and it was for awhile, I couldn’t go to the bathroom without him having a fit. When I say fit, I don’t mean a mild tantrum, I mean that he would scream, and cry and scream and cry the moment I left his line of sight until I’d come back to soothe him. I often considered making a cardboard cut out of myself to stand as a dummy so that I could possibly wash my hands in peace.
Maybe I should have.
The older he’s gotten, the more likely it is that he will take a shining to someone else. He’s very close with his father. He adores his older brother and sister. He loves my mother, his “Gummy.” Other people he likes, but can often be slightly reserved in their presence. It’s turned from something that made life intolerable after awhile into a mere quirk of his personality.
Alexander (whom we often call Jay) is just a Momma’s Boy ™.
This, of course, has taken a hilarious new turn.
Now, while Alex is awake, I am not able to hug or cuddle with either of the other men in my house. Amelia, he’s okay with but should Dave dare to wrap his guns around me, Alex is the Holy Ghost times twenty (somewhere, my MIL is smiling and she knows not why).
He’ll quickly run up and try and ensconce himself between our legs. Once there, he will try to peel us apart as though we were a gooey pair of stickers, and should we hesitate in breaking our embrace, he shrieks. And Alex’s screams could double as a dog whistle an eardrum rupturer. He’s THAT shrill and loud.
At first, thinking that he just wanted in on the lovin’, I’d swoop him up and squash him in. He’d wrap a spindly arm around me and use the other to push his father (or brother) away, yelling “NO DADA!” or “NO EWE!” (he calls Ben Ew. Which I think is “you” because we’ve never called anything “ew” before. But we don’t call Ben “you” either. I guess the moral of THAT story is that kids are just weird.).
Oh no, Alex doesn’t want ANYONE but he or his sister to lay a finger on his precious mother.
Because I know this is only a phase he’s going through, we all find it pretty funny and charming. I remember being a wee one and being entirely convinced that I would grow up to marry my uncle. Any ladyfriend he brought around after I made my mind up, I was immediately An Enemy. Didn’t matter how many times I was told that I couldn’t marry an uncle, I wouldn’t listen.
Nobody better lay a finger on my mother.
I just feel sorry for his future wife. There’s no way this can go well for her.
Now I have some business to attend to, but don’t worry. It’s not crazy boring. Only KIND of boring.
See, over on that sidebar is a page called “Link-a-Licious.” As you might deduct from the name, o! brilliant Internet sleuths that you are, that page is my blog-roll. It’s insane. It’s unruly. And it needs a hair cut and dye job, desperately.
So this is where YOU come in. Do you have a blog? Do you comment here? Do I know you? Do I WANT to know you? (I probably want to know you) Does your link work properly or have I completely messed it up? Leave me your link.
Also: I am on Facebook if you are so inclined to want to read more of my pointless shit. My name is at the bottom of the blog.
ALSO at the bottom of my blog, hidden neatly away there so that no one can find it (hello pointless!) is an RSS button, should you want to subscribe. Do not ask me what that means. All that I know is that this is a really fracking stupid place to put a button *grumble, grumble* and I cannot wait for my new design.
I am on Twitter! Because who isn’t? My name is “mommywantsvodka*” and we should totally be BFF!!! Triple exclamation points for triple the fun!
And how cool is this? I didn’t even pay her to write this.
Lastly, I need some prayers sent for a friend of mine. The details aren’t mine to share, so I won’t, but please PLEASE keep my friend in your prayers.
*My name is NOT “mommy wants vodka.” It is Becky Sherrick Harks.