Feelings

Everything Isaac feels seems to be humming just underneath the surface of his skin--his happiness and good cheer, his frustration, his anger. He collapses easily in tears; he also has the best belly-laugh I’ve ever heard, one he started working on, I think, in the womb. As an infant he used to let out these ear-piercing shrieks and then look around, eyes twinkling, like, “See how awesome it is to be a baby?” When he hugs us now he does it tightly, clutching us fiercely and saying, “I love you so much!” He feels everything as hard as he can. It is what makes him difficult at times, and also what makes him a source of such deep joy for us.

A couple of evenings ago, in a sudden fit of the grumpies, he cried passionately that he didn’t like any colors. AT ALL. And he was going to take them away from everyone so NOBODY could have any colors. I don’t even remember the context of this outburst, only that I felt torn between stifled laughter and sadness, because, after all, that’s rather heavy stuff for a preschooler.

He followed this with, “And I’m not going to play ever again! Or do a project! EVER AGAIN!”

“Well, that’s too bad,” I said. “What are you going to do, then?”

“I’m not going to do anything,” my little son said, stomping into the living room and sitting down on the floor. When I suggested he come and have dinner with us (when we’re all home for dinner at the same time Matt and I have the kids sit with us at the “big table” instead of at the kitchen counter or the little IKEA table), he said, “I not gonna eat my supper at the big table ever again!”

Matt and I said we were very sorry that he didn’t want to eat dinner at the big table, but that was where his dinner was, and if he wanted to eat it he needed to sit there with us. Otherwise, time for jammies. He disintegrated into a sobbing heap of four-year-old angst.

This, I suppose, is parenthood -- the feeling of being caught between laughter and a sense of despondency. Because it’s absurd, of course, my kid announcing that he is just done with dinner and playing and colors and everything. He means every word. Emphatically. I want to laugh. I want to scoop him up in my arms and kiss the grumpies away (although that never works when he is stuck in them). I want to bury my face in his neck -- his neck that soon enough will take on that faintly potatoey scent of little boys -- and inhale every beautiful molecule of his little soul. I want to tell him that I get it. Because I basically made the same absurd proclamation yesterday, announcing to a friend who has known me for my entire adult life (and is therefore quite used to the fact that I do very little to suppress my own feelings) that I wasn’t going to speak to a certain someone we work with for a very long time and that I hated everything. Since I am not four years old, I backed this up with what I imagined to be very reasonable evidence, and waited for validation. My friend gave me a hug and managed not to roll his eyes. Then he suggested that I go home and enjoy the long weekend.

I tried. I came home, took a bubble bath, and drank a glass of wine. I made it through dinner (at the big table, even) but while the kids were putting on their pajamas I sank into the couch and said, “I’m just going to lie here for five minutes, okay?” And then I passed right out. I was dimly aware of both of my children covering me up with blankets from their rooms, and one of them brought me a bear. A little pair of lips kissed me sloppily on the cheek. Matt read stories and tucked the kids into bed without suggesting that maybe I should haul myself up and help. I sat up, disoriented, an hour or so later. Maybe this is how adults deal with those moments in which we want to take away all the colors and insist that we’re not gonna play, ever again -- we just curl up on the couch, unable to move.

I slept hard last night. This morning I slept in more than an hour past the time I usually get up. I dropped Isaac off at daycare (he won’t miss Friday show-and-tell) and then Suzannah and I had a Girls’ Day Out. We started at my school so I could finish up a few things before Monday--I’ve planned this for a couple of weeks, staying up late to finish grading specifically so I could just enjoy this day out with my kid and not think about work waiting for me back at home. Suzannah drew on my white board for awhile, played with some toys I’ve kept stashed at school for days like this, and drew on some printer paper while I made copies. And then we drove to Tacoma, where we ate lunch at Freighthouse Square and rode the Link to Union Station. This is one of our favorite activities on these bonus days off together. We have cupcakes at Hello, Cupcake; we browse the University bookstore; we stop at Anthem for coffee and milk. This afternoon, not quite ready to let go of our cozy day off, we drove to two other used bookstores in Tacoma. I had a great conversation with a bookseller about Laurie Halse Anderson, and Suzannah made friends with some cats. Everything that made me angry yesterday faded into an inconsequential background today.

Isaac rebounds from his moods so quickly. He doesn’t want to do anything ever again but then he’s tumbling into our arms, freshly bathed and clad in pajamas and full of exuberant hugs. I love this about my children; it helps me shake off the things that might make me collapse on the couch every night otherwise. Oh, my little son. I understand, I do. I wish I could tell you that you’ll grow out of this -- and probably you will. But all I can really do in this moment is pray that you always have people in your life who will love you in whatever moment you’re in, because that sure has saved me.