I still kick myself that I actually paid cold hard cash for you to have speech therapy. You literally never shut up. From the moment you wake up at the crack of dawn to the point where you’re tucked into bed and I’m running down the stairs in a state of drunken bliss, you’re still talking. About what you might ask yourself? Who knows? You actually try to fill every moment of silence with words and it’s exhausting. I’m reminded of a particularly difficult afternoon recently where I needed a moment to process some unsettling news and there you were with your blabbity blah blah, talking about your shoes being sticky and your confusion that your cheese is white and not orange and there’s a fat bird on the fence that looks like a foot. I asked you, why must you talk so much? With a simple look on your face, you looked right at me and said, I like to talk. I’m screwed.
In addition to your frequent ramblings, you’re still very prone to tantrums or rather passionate about having things go your way or simply just being an asshole. A common occurrence in our house is you getting angry about something and in your fit of rage, will often resort to insulting my cooking because you seem to think those are the words that really twist the dagger. It doesn’t and I still make you eat the food that you are cursing so you’ve moved on to different tactics. Now, when your Irish fire rears it’s ugly head, you now tell me you wish you didn’t have a family a la Kevin McCallister in Home Alone. I’ll admit that those words do have a little more sting to them. Nothing makes you feel more inadequate as a parent than your child, whom you sweat and bleed for, says they wish you weren’t around. I know you truly don’t understand the weight of your words nor do you fully understand what you’re saying but nevertheless, it’s certainly not the warm and fuzzies I felt when you were a tiny bundle of adorable with absolutely zero linguistic ability. Again, why did I pay someone thousands of dollars to teach you to talk? Worst investment ever.
Your inability to stop talking has no limits and that was proven this past weekend when we ran our annual Shamrock 5k Family Fun Run. Last year was our first year and we attempted to stay together as a family and we quickly learned that you and Olivia are two very different runners where as you can run forever with little effort and Olivia stops every thirty seconds holding her side in pain, claiming she has to poop. She is of course the anxious pooper so this isn’t really all that surprising. This time your Dad and I decided to split you two up and I would stay behind with Olivia and Dad would run with you. As expected, you and Dad took off and we didn’t see you again until Liv and I crossed the finish line. I kid you not, the first words out of dad’s mouth upon our reunion was, that kid never shuts up! He talked the WHOLE time! You only stopped twice, once for water and the second time because you had an itch but otherwise you ran the entire 3.2 miles and even turned the run into a game where you actually sprinted every time you saw a bike path arrow or a right turn arrow because “the arrows gave you power.” Your constant talking and effortless run actually annoyed some people who were dying, trying to keep up with you. You crossed the finish line at an impressive 33 minutes and came in 13th overall in the boys 8 and under category proving to me and everyone else that you have more energy than anyone knows what to do with. Clearly this level of energy you’re exuding is the reason I feel like I’ve been hit by a semi on a daily basis for the last five years.
You’re very athletic and sports-focused so I tend to forget sometimes that you’re actually a pretty bright kid. Not that I thought you were intellectually challenged or anything but I tend not to think of you as being a super brainy child. To me, you’re just a regular kid with freakishly fast feet. Every now and then you surprise me when you belt out a completely random fact about something you learned in school or your surprisingly accurate drawings of people like Martin Luther King Jr. or George Washington.
Just the other morning you surprised me again with your clever thinking when after having seen a video where a man built a model of the earth, moon and sun out of Legos, you quickly retreated to your room where you stayed for the majority of the afternoon. At one point, I even overheard you ask Olivia if she could help you out with a super secret project in your room. I’ll admit that my interest was piqued because you’re never that nice to Olivia let alone warmly invite her to your room without turning it into an ambush where you attack her when she enters. A short while later, you and Olivia emerged from your room with exciting news that you had completed building our solar system with nothing but Legos. You’re not confident in your writing ability yet so you had enlisted the help of your sister to write out the names of the planets you had carefully crafted from observing Olivia’s model solar system. Was I impressed? ABSOLUTELY! You’re not a little sports-focused meathead after all! Yes, I sometimes think that and I’m very sorry for holding such unfair stereotypes. I did believe for a split second that maybe you have a big ol’ brain in that stubborn head of yours. I did for a small second until I discovered you had peed on your Hot Wheels race track because you “wanted to watch your urine go around and down the track.” Super.
Boys and girls are strikingly different and you and Olivia are confirming that truth for me every day. I was terrified of the thought of having a boy for the very reasons you exhibit today: you’re loud, high-energy, dirty and unruly. You’re also very funny, animated and sometimes sweet which certainly helps your existence in this world because I can confidently state that without those positive qualities, you never would have seen your third birthday. Raising a boy is challenging because as a woman, I can’t relate to your antics. At least not like your Dad who often says, I remember wrestling often with my brother and peeing in bushes. Yea, I can’t relate to that at all. Since I’m the one who is with you 90% of the time, I have to find ways to relate to you or at least be understanding to your strange ways. Something that is proving to be quite difficult. I don’t understand the infatuation with a penis or urine and why every activity has to be violent and physical or why something isn’t fun unless you can walk away with it dirtier than a dustpan. I feel mothers of boys should receive badges or medals or something that shouts to the world that I’m raising a wild animal over here so be extra kind to me. Yes, the thought of raising a boy is terrifying and it doesn’t appear to be getting any easier. You better be nice to me when you’re an adult and call me often because I cleaned up dried urine from your Hot Wheels racetracks. Only a person like your mother who loves you unconditionally would do that. Or a person who is crazy. I’m happy to report that I’m both.