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| its like popping bubble wrap, an independent activity |
Crunching some snow (winter’s cousin to spring’s puddle jumping) is my son’s favourite winter activity. Every time we pull into the driveway over the dirty, icy hunks of leftover snow - where you hear that familiar tectonic-plates-shifting sound - he says eagerly, “Want to crunch some snow!” meaning precisely, “Don’t even think about carrying me directly inside when you take me out of my carseat, Mom. I want to spend some quality time crunching snow (with my BOOTS)”
I don’t usually let him because its a) too cold or b) I just want to go inside and put my feet up or c) we have groceries to put away or d) I have to run to the washroom, but on the odd occasion, when I’m feeling charitable, I stay outside for 5 minutes and let his heels smash and crush some snow because well, you only live once and snow crunching is a spectacular passtime for a 2 year old - it beats snowshoeing any day of the week (if you ask me).
Yesterday was one such day. He was really into it, talking to himself as he raised his foot up high and with purpose, “Fuhst you cunch da snow like dis.” (more baby accent than Governor Arnold) “And then your foot cunches it all up. Cunch, cunch, cunch.” I leaned on the retaining wall, holding my pee and hugging myself from the cold. “This is the stuff of Canadian winters” I said to myself. “Be patient. Clearly, He needs to get in touch with nature and the driveway is his north east passage expedition equivalent . He just needs to crunch right now."
After I had humoured him for 10 minutes and was very near to wetting myself (I half considered it - at least my legs would feel warmth again) I approached his “cunching zone” to pick him up and bring him inside. “Good crunching, man. But that’s enough for now.” I said, authoritatively yet warmly. “Time to go in and get warm - want to play trains with Mommy?” (The diversion technique is still my go-to - it usually works). I expected him to whine “No!” and perhaps flail a little as I carried him up the stone steps to our front door, but what I received instead was something so unexpected, something that caught me so off-guard I was moved to write this blog.
“Leave me ALONE!” he shouted. “I’m not finished yet. Don’t touch me!” These are words I have never heard him say, especially so dead seriously and to me! I no longer saw Charlie standing before me, but instead glimpsed a misunderstood, angsty, lippy teenager from a Gus Van Sant film. I stood there...astonished. Struck dumb. Speechless. "Who is this child?”
Since that moment, when he saw my reaction of shock and silence paired with my actual physical retreat by a few steps he has gained the power of Lex Luther in our household. His commands as weighty as cryponite to my once super Mom. There is no fooling him. There is no putting his coat on when he doesn’t want to. There is no, “Here, eat this” where I sneak something healthy into his mouth while he’s watching Fireman Sam and he absent mindedly chews and swallows its nutrients. No more. He is the master of his own universe and no mortal shall deign to make decisions for him. Or help him either. He is rather dichotomous about this. On the one hand, he must do everything “hisself” even things he cannot do, like do up his carseat. But he tries first before letting me. The idea that I would even try to cover him with a blanket is met with disdain. “Don’t WANT THAT!” or “My blanket - don’t touch it.” And then he’ll do a total 180 and demand snuggles and help. “Lift me up.” “Kiss it better.” “I need a hug.” I feel like a maid some days or atleast his personal assistant. At what point did I become SIRI responding to voice commands?
