Running Late

Delays are a thing of my life. I remember being part of a team of fellow tardy students who scrubbed, swept and dusted the faculty room at my old high school. Our punishment for being perenially late for the 7 a.m. bell. I learned a thing or two about housework, though. Something no one taught me at home.

In college, I was housed in an in-campus dorm, about a couple of minutes away from most of the classrooms. I was late everyday, too. My thesis was late, and as a consequence, so was my graduation. It was the same for every job I held down, and I got by on the skin of my teeth. Must have very pretty teeth. Most people seemed disarmed by my smile (except Atch, he has bigger teeth than I do).

Life started to change after marriage, what with a seargent-at-arms of a husband harrying me through the day. Thanks to him, I cut a bathroom record for 3 minutes per bath. Shampooing and moisturizing included. I can sweep and wax the upstairs floors in 30 minutes flat, with him hollering nonstop for me to come down to breakfast. I am now an hour early for work each day, with enough time for me to put on my make-up, de-hair my armpits and legs, and get way way ahead of my workday schedule. He's been able to teach me some things in my old age, this man of mine.

But delays are making their intrusive way into the fabric of my existence once more, like an addiction worming its way back into my skin. Only it's not my skin I'm bothered about, its Eli's. I worry about the state of his development. That is, his lack of it.

Not that there's anything the matter with his physical growth, he's as sturdy as an ox and has a belly pushing out in front of him like Friar Tuck after downing a barrel of mead. His meaty arms often choke the breath from my stringy neck, and if the ceiling thunders overhead, one can be sure he is trotting on the floorboards upstairs on a quest for something or other.

Catching rain from the downspout

But still I worry. Eli is pushing two and has yet to conquer the language barrier. He says “up”, and “go”, and “car”, “piss” (please) and “ta-ta” (thank you), “kich” (kiss) and “ugg” (hug) and “ba-ba” (bye-bye), but that's about all there is to it. To get something he wants, he'll point to the object of desire and go “Mmmm?!”.

Parenting websites tell me that all babies develop at their own pace. But Woog's mouth was running on lispy sentence fragments at this stage. I know I shouldn't compare (Bad mommy! Bad mommy!) .... but still.

Also, for no reason in particular, he's developed a great dislike for his potty, and nothing we do will make him sit on it willingly. He's on XXL diapies now, but with the size of his butt and the volume of his expulsions, we'll have to think about getting him size small adult diapers soon.

Gathering leaves

Most toddlers his age are sleeping through the night. Not this little monster. In the dead of sleep, when we are well into r.e.m., he climbs into our bed: “Up!” he explains unapollogetically, “up!”, and he knees us on the belly and elbows us on the nose, until he has found that precise position between us, with his head against my ribs and his feet on his father's face. At around this time, we are groaning and cursing, while “Up...” he sighs blissfully, falling back to sleep.

We have tried plunking him back on his bed, he simply finds his way back up again. Rather than go through this exhausting repetitive cycle for the rest of the night, our sleep deprived selves have decided to let him be. Surely, he'll grow out of it. It's a decade or so before he becomes a teenager. Not too long a wait.

Too, at 20 months, his temper tantrums have reared their ugly head. Taking just one wheel off its axles from his offroader jeep isn't enough for him, no. He has to remove the remaining three tires, as well. And it's all our fault that the vehicle is a little too well made for him to discombobulate. So SCREAM, SCREECH, YOWL, SHRIEK you! Same goes for the square-block-that-won't-fit-into-the-round-hole puzzle box, or the plastic hanger that won't hook into the closet handle. HOOOWWWL!

What do you do about a toddler who insists on being carried, all 500 tons of him, until he warms up to the new day, or leaves whatever cobwebs he has woken up with behind? Or an almost two-year-old who shies away from new people, is terrified by the kiddie rides at the mall, and hollers blue murder at the modiste trying to take his barong measurement for his aunt's impending wedding (assuming he'd consent to wear one)?

Hiding inside Mom's closet

Except that at 5 A.M., before you even want to think of getting up, he is draping his heavy barrel chest on you, asking for his “kich”, and wetly smothering your face with a combination of “ooombwah's” and the new smacking sounds he has just recently learned to make. And after you'd make some sleepy grunt of acknowledgement, he'd press the point of his chin on your cheek or arm or shoulder, and dig and wiggle down until you are wide awake. Then and only then, will he demand an “ugg”, and give you one of his own without even waiting for your reply.

“Who's my sweet little fat little gwapo little baby?” I'd ask him. “'Ah-jah!” (Elijah) he'd squeal, tapping his chest proudly.

Delays? Was I talking about delays?