Tin and I have spent every waking hour together for the past 48 plus hours. He is communicating so much better than even a week ago, but he has returned to the frequent use of no for just about every response. Do you want breakfast, no I don’t want breakfast. Do you want to go to the park, no I don’t want to go to the park. As I write this he is learning how to open the bedroom door. He asks me, “Do you want to open it? Do you want to help you?”
“No we are not going to go see the brass band, no, we’re not going to go mommy, no mommy, no!” Tears in his eyes.
Sigh.
Tin defies logic – what did I do in my life to deserve a son like him? He is a character as the woman called him last Saturday when we went to see the brass band in Louis Armstrong Park that allow young budding musicians to join in.
There is nothing easy about this whole motherhood journey though. A guy I was speaking to the other night said that Tin hits me and not Tatjana because he knows who the softy is in this house. I yam what I yam, soft as a baked sweet potato.
Meanwhile, as he runs around the house saying, “I want to be like Evan.” “I want to be like Louis Armstrong.” “I am Trombone Shorty.” I think yeah, but you’ll be a little bit me too when you grow up. My mom was soft as a yam, I’m soft as a yam, and more than likely he will be soft as a yam too.