The Apple Doesn't Fall So Far from the Tree

Half days at work are hard for me. Because a half-day at work means a half-day at home and pregnant-Libby is tired and slightly impatient. And Oliver is a handfull, and that's putting it mildly. Last Tuesday, my battle with Oliver was this: he kept sticking a domino in his butt-cheeks and calling it a tail. Of course, I kept telling him no and trying to explain about A. it's gross and B. it could really hurt. He wouldn't stop doing it though and continued to prance, naked, with a domino sticking out of his butt-cheeks. That's just Oliver. I couldn't stop laughing, but that's just me.

I've been thinking a lot lately about Penelope and the kind of kid she's going to be. The Universe has been sending me signs and, ultimately, I fear, trying to prepare me for another child of Oliver's caliber. A co-worker who doesn't usually stop in my office, came in to say hello and congratulate me on my pregnancy. This is how out conversation progressed:

CW: You know, God makes your first child easy so you'll have more children.
Me: I could stab you in the throat.

Because Oliver isn't easy. He's insane and a constant challange. When people ask me, "How's your son?" My automatic response is, "Crazy". Sometimes, I'm not even listening when they ask me. It's like driving to work in the morning and forgetting how you got there, it's that automatic. You could ask me at 3 in the morning, "How's Oliver?" and he'd be crazy, even if he's asleep!

And so I've been hoping that Penelope will be my sweet, quiet, tag-a-long child; the one that doesn't give me guff when I tell her not to climb on the slanted roof of the playground (or better yet, doesn't even think about climbing onto the slanted roof of the play-ground); who doesn't feel the need to rearrange furniture, roll up rugs and put paint cans inside the dryer; who isn't intent on testing every boundary and treating rules as theories, not because he's a bad child, but because he's one who doesn't want to take your word for it.

But the truth is, when I really get down to it: I  love  that my child is different. He's curious, bright, independent and coordinated (he's been scaling the cabinets for snacks since he was 18 months old. He can balance on a rolling chair like goats on the narrow side of a mountain.) He keeps me entertained, makes me laugh until my gut hurts and leaves me so very exhausted that sometimes I can hardly function. At the end of the day, I wouldn't want him to change at all. Because he's interesting, unique and spirited. And when Penelope comes,  I secretly wish that she be just like him.

He's got his reasons for doing the things he does and far be it for me to question it. I'm just a long for the ride, so grateful to be his mother. And besides, as his Aunt Ama pointed out last night, "Deep down, don't we all want a tail?"

He gets his sense of humor from me. He gets the nose picking from his father.