05/20/2007

Swoosh!! I duck quickly as the plunger-turned-baseball-bat swings dangerously near my face. Nathan has never successfully hit the ball...not even a foul. He just swings and misses time and time again. "Give up!" I want to say, but I know that would not be a good, encouraging, Mommy thing to do. Instead we clap our hands and I pitch the ball for the millionth time. Then I prepare myself to avoid contact with the plumbing tool that so regularly captivates my son. Do we have no better toy in this house? I sincerely appreciate the ingenuity which resulted in this baseball game: Nathan instigated hitting the beach ball with the plunger all on his own. Clever, yet completely disgusting. A "thanks, but no thanks" scenario. At least it kept him happy for a time.

It has been a woeful few days. Nathan has been quite out of sorts in a crying-all-the-time, impossible-to-satisfy way. I've tried to come up with an explanation for this mood swing. My first thought was that Nathan might be getting a few more molars. I even attempted to check a few days ago. Putting any body part with nerve endings into Nathan's mouth is a risk not worth taking, but I did it anyways and, as expected, fully regretted the decision. I didn't even get my finger in far enough to feel gum tissue before Nathan's shark-strength jaws clamped down on my finger. No additional information was discovered. I did, however, have a life-size imprint of my son's teeth on my pointer finger. Nice. I looked for symptoms of illness: fever, chills, vomiting, lack of appetite, or rash, but I came up empty. Today Nick, the psychiatrist, diagnosed Nathan with what we can only assume is the problem:

Nathan's keen toddler-sense has picked up on his impending trip to Grand Rapids, and he is mourning the thought of 18 days without his Daddy.

Today Nathan was particularly clingy when it came to his Dada. He stood at the door and sobbed a puddle onto the floor when Nick left for work. I wonder: If I was the parent who worked, would Nathan cry crocodile tears over my exit? That would be nice. Instead, I soothe the heartbroken baby and endure countless innings of plunger baseball. I pray that I will be long-suffering no matter how many toys are thrown at me. I love this little blond boy dearly, but I admit to rejoicing and doing a small jig when he finally goes down for the night. After I have a good night's sleep I will be ready to play with my busy boy again. I will hear his little voice call for me and, ironically, will do a little jig into his room to greet him.