Metal Meredith

As I watched your brother tonight, splashing wildly in the tub as you recoiled for fear of getting a drop or two splashed on your precious face, I had to wonder what it is that made you that way?

Is it the fact that you are the first child? When you were born, neither your father nor I had any idea what we were doing. I read a bunch of books. I followed along on various web sites and message boards. I talked with other moms. I knew that you were our ‘experiment’ as far as our child rearing goes. But we really did do the best with what we had and knew. It is pretty amazing that even me, the queen of research could not prepare for you.

Did we protect you too much? Should have I allowed you to fall on your head a few more times? You just seemed so hell bent on cracking your chin on every surface when you started to pull up. Honestly, I just didn’t want to hear you cry. It was a scream that shot straight into the most deeply buried nerve in my brain and plucked it to no end. I know, it certainly didn’t help that the Zoloft was just kicking in, huh?

Speaking of crying, should we have let you cry some more at night? Your Dad had such a hard time hearing you cry that we both got used to rocking you to sleep. Every nap and each night one of us could be found in the rocking chair in your room until you fell asleep. Then, we had a precise and exact method to get off the chair, lay you down into the crib, slowly remove our arms from underneath you. Then we would pull up the sides of the crib and tip-toe out of the room. That darn floor creaked something awful. I remember sticking my arm out the door trying to sign language to Dad to turn off the hall light so I could escape.

I am not sure if it is the testosterone, the second child syndrome or his personality, but Henry is constantly toppling over with no tears. He just pops back up and moves along. He hardly cries when put in his bed. He doesn’t even WANT to be rocked to sleep, much less rocked at all when he is ready to be in his crib. Sure, he cries if I walk away. Honestly, after the last few years of you considering Dad some sort of hero, I think it is kind of sweet.

So tell me, at what point do I start blaming myself for you being so terribly whiny? Do I really have to wait for a shrink to tell you that it was ‘all your mother’s fault’ before we have a definitive answer? Until then, can you try to suck it up a little? Thanks.