“No baby, don’t pull mommy’s hair, let go please. Please let go. Lee, can you get his hands out of my hair please?!”
“No biting Oliver! No biting! No…no… stop biting please.”
“Ahllizer… leggo ny lip lease…. leases leggo….”
He may be small, but my son is a force of nature, and that force is usually directed at me.
As he grows he learns to master his motor skills. I seem to be the most convenient tool for practice. My hair gets yanked on as he buries his hands into the nape of my neck, my face gets smothered with full force drooly kisses, bumped with baby chin, and rearranged as he pulls on my cheeks and lips. He pulls on my clothes, kicks my stomach, bites my fingers, scratches my chest, twists my skin.
I know he doesn’t do it on purpose, he doesn’t even understand that it hurts. Like Godzilla saving Japan from the latest monster, he doesn’t understand the havoc wrecked by his actions. I am merely collateral damage. His arms and legs don’t work as well as they will one day work, and until he masters them, I will continue to be smacked and kicked, and otherwise abused. I didn’t notice it so much with my daughter, I think Oliver is much stronger than she was. I also think he wants to be in my arms more, so his practice sessions have a more direct effect on me than hers did.
I hear the cry of baby Godzilla, demanding milk and more snuggles. Maybe I should get some kick-boxing gear and wear it around the house.