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Jus'
Gus Gus was an angelic baby
-- never crying or fussing without reason. He was one of those happy,
dopey-smiled cooers, so we had no warning.
It was when he first learned to walk (and climb) that the
metamorphosis began. He was
still as sweet natured as ever, just in a dangerous fashion.
Like many babies, Gus loved balls and throwing, and especially
seemed to delight in heavy objects aimed at our heads.
By the age of 1½ he’d acquired the nickname “Odd Job”
(side kick of the 007 villain Gold Finger, with the propensity for
decapitating people with the throw of his hat).
Many were the mornings we'd wake up to that feeling of being
watched. We’d open our
eyes and look straight up into Gus’ lovely starry-blue gaze; an
interested expression on his face as he'd drop a boot or book onto one
of our heads. I always say that Gus
is my guilt-free child. My
oldest son was the only child, the only person really, in my life until
he was three-years-old. Then
I got married and pregnant again around the same time, and by four-years-old
he was adjusting to a whole new family order.
My daughter, the middle child, was only sixteen-months-old when
her little brother was born. She had to adjust to both weaning and
having her rightful place as baby-of-the-family usurped all at once.
Both kids appear to have turned out just fine, but I have
motherly guilt about them not getting as much exclusive baby time as
they should have. Gus, as
the youngest, has come out unscathed by that guilt.
He is baby not only to me, but to his siblings as well, and his
self-identity and family position have always been clear.
From the age of two he referred to himself in the third person as
“Gussy Holden” and up until recently would state very proudly that
he was still a baby. Nonchalantly riding in
the car playing with his sock one evening, Gus quietly stated from the
backseat, “When I’m a teenager I’m going to stab daddy and kill
him.” Amused, but not
wanting to actually encourage any stabbing, I turn around and reply
straight-faced, “Gus, I don’t want to hear any more talk about
stabbing people. It’s not alright to hurt anyone, okay?”
But secretly I giggled about it all the way home, and once the
kids were in bed Ron and I shared a good laugh; one of those that is
hysterical and boy is my child a freak! kind of laughs.
Three-years-old seems a bit young, but the first thing that came
to mind was Oedipus. And seemingly right on
cue,
Gus began an intense only mama will do phase: to take him to the
potty, to pick him up, to kiss him goodnight, to buckle his car seat, to
scoot in his chair, and so on. His
siblings are allowed a select few of these privileges, but daddy is
absolutely barred from almost all contact, with the exception of
occasionally being allowed to toss Gus up in the air.
The only game he consistently allows his daddy to play with him
is one in which he, Gus, has superhuman psychokinetic strength.
He flings his arm through the air, similar to an energetic
orchestra conductor, aims it at his father, and laughs gleefully as
daddy tumbles backwards - doing slapstick rolls, falls and crashes all
the way out the bedroom door, kicking it shut with Gus’ final fling.
This is a regular bedtime ritual and Gus loves it.
It almost makes up for, and I think is his response to, the
unwanted bedtime kiss daddy insists on giving him. Then come the dreams.
Gus wakes up yelling or
crying at least once most nights. But
his nightmares aren’t from the fairy tales that we frequently read
before bed -- no skeletons, monsters or bears wake him in the night.
When he was younger, his dreams were about loss.
He’d only half-wake then, sobbing that he couldn’t find
something, a stuffed animal, or that he didn’t have enough of
something, that he’d eaten all his cookies.
I would pat him on the back, murmuring “Here it is Gus, here it
is” and he’d drift back to sleep, comforted, his dream salvaged that
easily. Gus’ dreams are
still centered on loss, but these days they’re full of outrage,
littered with people -- family members specifically -- who’ve taken
things away from him: marshmallows, endless favorite toys, art supplies,
his spot by the window. And
he isn’t so easily appeased, no longer am I able to steal into his
dreams and make repairs. Instead
I groggily lean out of bed, physically haul his tortured and very
heavy self out of his blankets and into mine, and then hug him tight
until he tearfully settles back to sleep.
A few days ago I read a
book excerpt by an author and mother on the topic of respect in young
children. She gave a glowing
description of her own young son -- what a gentle child he had been:
kind to all animals (including bugs), always shared, never ripped
anything up nor raised his voice or hand to harm, etc.
His little friend, on the other hand, liked to pull the legs off
of unfortunate insects, periodically destroyed the personal property of
others, yelled at people, etc. The
author concluded that a child who behaves in such a way has no respect
for his or her environment. Of
course, when she was describing her little boy’s friend I immediately
thought of Gus, and there was a brief moment where my worst
paranoid-mother fears were founded -– there was something wrong with
my child! Here was the
proof, in print. But then
rational, and next sarcastic, thought took hold and I realized that I
completely disagreed. Despite
my sporadic worries that
I’m raising a future societal misfit, I found her theory harsh at
best. The behavior she
described seemed pretty on-par for most kids under the age of five.
I’ve often thought that the “terrible twos” should be
re-named to include the terrible threes, fours and fives. Gus is probably just
immensely intelligent or creative – isn’t that what mothers say to
explain their children’s menacing tendencies?
He’s a loving little boy (which also comes out sounding a lot
like an exemption), equally happy playing princesses, ponies, or evil
dinos with his brother and sister. Although
neither of his siblings ever stomped ants with quite the enthusiasm that
Gus does, nor were they so enamored with the resident rollie bugs and
earthworms that Gus carries around the garden until they’re
practically loved to death. True,
they never silently stacked library books into gravity-defying towers
the way he does, climbing them to reach items purposely placed out of
reach, but he does share the prize with them once he attains it.
Nor were they anywhere near as methodically destructive as this
child can be (or as easily hurt by a reprimand, or as quick to give an
apology.) I guess what it
comes down to is that there is no comparison, and that there shouldn’t
be. Gus is
his own small person, and not necessarily destined to be a criminal
either. He’s got his alter
ego down pat – maybe he’ll grow up to be a super hero. We were at the kids’
grandparents’ house, and I took the opportunity for a short nap while
grandma started dinner. 45
minutes into a deep sleep and I’m suddenly awakened by a small warm
body clamoring under the covers with me.
I feel soft sticky fingers on my face, around my neck, the sweet
clinging smell of fresh pineapple. “Grandma
wants me to wash my hands!” he cries, with the glee of having
outwitted grandma. I hug him
tight and breathe him in. My
willing prisoner. My Greek
tragedy. My three-year-old
boy. .......................................................................... |
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