This was Nathan last year as the most adorable lion ever. This year, I bought a chicken costume in hopes that we can replicate the ease and enjoyment of
exploiting utilizing my son to represent the animal kingdom. But shortly after I shimmied his squiggly body into the soft fuzzy chicken suit complete with hooded chicken head, he let out a terrible squeal to warn everyone on our block that his parents were committing something as egregious as forced poultry wear.
And this is the disconnect we’ve had lately. When I want him to enjoy something as much as I do, I am faced with a, “What kind of sick tradition is this holiday you call ‘Halloween,’ woman?” attitude. When we went to the pumpkin patch the other week, there were bales of hay that other children were climbing on and thorougly enjoying and when I plopped him in and urged him to play, he looked at me with utter confusion like, “WHY ARE YOU DUMPING ME IN HERE WITH ALL THESE WHITE KIDS?”
My son is now 17 months and while putting on his diaper is like diapering a break-dancing pig, I love this stage. When he wants to wake me up, he’ll stick a finger in my nose, press his face close to mine or pull at my pajama sleeve. He’s just as intent on expressing his happiness. At the Children’s Museum this weekend, he was so elated to be in a space where I wasn’t hollering, “ROCKS ARE NOT FOOD, CHILD,” that he kept running into my lap, giggling wildly. I want to bottle those moments up and smash them open during the times I cannot breathe because there is a thumb lodged in my nostril.
Even though I haven’t been able to teach him how to kiss Mommy, the Children’s Museum’s Global Village Room offered us the important lesson that everyone in the Philippines has rattan furniture.