Or: I love you for your dexterity
Wallace was utterly unreal during the trip to England. He had zero jet lag and behaved like a trouper. He didn’t know where he was or what he was doing there, but so often he just went with the flow. Frequently TT and I or his Oma would turn to each other and say, “Do you believe this kid??”, because we didn’t. We braced ourselves for a preschool culture shock that never materialized.
Wallace slept on the whole trip to England and stayed in line with us through customs and baggage claim. When we left Terminal 3 at Heathrow his grandparents were all waiting there with a big sign that said, “Happy Birthday Wallace - 3!” and with balloons. Wallace walked out of the claims area, saw the banner and balloons and loving, familiar faces, and raced over to them. He stood there, demurely smiling and lightly blushing as we all sang happy birthday. He was beyond thrilled.
He slept in the car to the house from Heathrow. Then we went to a party, at which he played and had a lovely time. There were tons of gifts and they were basically all Thomas. Even a Thomas Cake! from his Grandad and Sukie. His Oma even came through with James. I cannot describe how happy he was.
The next long week was a dervish of activity including a castle visit, a shopping trip, and a long lunch with Oma. Oma spent lots of time babysitting while TT and I hit the town and Wallace took it all in stride; minimal whining and shockingly good behavior.
It all came to a head when everything went wrong on the trip home. Wallace held it together admirably when we were pulled off the plane and sent to the hotel. He held it together against hunger and a real need for the bathroom and two very stressed out parents. He held it together against a 4:00am wakeup call in England (10:00pm the previous day Chicago time) and slept a bit on takeoff.
The final thread of sanity broke when we moved him to the floor because the bulkhead armrests don’t go up and a Very Bad Steward came out of nowhere and snottily told us that he couldn’t stretch out there. We had to pick him up just as he was about to drop off again and try and re-curl him to sleep and he just absolutely had a meltdown. A total screaming, howling miseryfest and all we could do was hold him tight and vehemently agree. None of the previous week had really made sense to him, and having to get up off the floor in a comfortable position for sleep and re-crick his back was just the end.
Later, a Very Nice Stewardess told us that, actually he could sleep down there just as long as we picked him up and belted him in if the fasten seat belt sign went off. Which we would have done anyway as I’m so paranoid about unexpected turbulence that I watch for it while I’m jogging. So the Very Bad Steward is going to hell. Asshole.
We were prepared for the trip to England being confusing and difficult for him, but we didn’t consider that the arriving back home might be harder. For a week he’s been popping up at 3:00am claiming that it’s morning. His schedule’s been off and by 6:00pm he’s ready to go to sleep for the night. His potty training was phenomenal in England (except for when he napped in Uncle Tommy’s bed and couldn’t get out to find the potty, sorry, Uncle Tommy!). He’s had several accidents since we’ve been home.
His beautiful behavior went into the toilet when we’d been back for a few days and while his reaction is understandable, his father and I spent a good portion of the weekend de-snotifying our child. We’ve had the unusual hitting and kicking of people and things. The screaming until his eyeballs explode out of his face. The throwing of things and the disobedience that goes with the sneaky smiles.
We’ve put the kibosh on it all, which led to a very naughty-step-tastic weekend. He seems to be coming out of the attitude spiral, though, and is occasionally nicer than a rabid dog.
He is an angel around others, but often around us it’s a crapshoot whether you’ll walk into a house populated with nothing but TT or I nursing a whiskey and clutching a packing slip to Siberia.
Yesterday we went to the zoo and, again, Wallace was lovely. While TT and I were watching him race around the playground I saw a nearby two year old wave a Jell-o cup right under his mother’s nose and bark, “HEY! YOU! OPEN THIS!”
I had to laugh out loud, and then I had to reassure the family that I was laughing out loud because it was that kind of weekend for us, too. Sometimes these small persons love us without reservation, but mostly we’re the people that open the Jell-o and make the DVDs work. I often think that if I couldn’t work the DVD player I’d have no street cred with Wallace at all.
Later that day Wallace woke up from his nap while his dad and I were unloading the car out front. Apparently while we were outside he went downstairs to our bedroom looking for us, then upstairs to TT’s office looking for him. I walked in just as Wallace came down the stairs, eyes swimming with tears and breath hitching. He smiled a watery smile and told me that there was nobody downstairs and nobody upstairs. That is when my heart shattered.
We spent a good half hour cuddling and snuggling him and promising over and over that we would never, ever leave him alone; that we’d been right outside and would never have left the house without him.
And we’ll never send our angel boy to Siberia, no matter how good he’s getting at sucking our will to live.
Can We Break Them?
Yes We Can!
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