Next Mood Swing: Five Minutes...

Today started out promisingly enough: three-year old son awakens in a good mood, all smiles. He waits relatively patiently for me to get out of bed. He actually plays on his own in his room for a little bit (something he rarely does, preferring my company almost constantly) while husband and I set up the floor-cleaning robots. We decide to go out to breakfast at the Irish Coffee Shop, one of his favorite places. Good mood continues through getting dressed, and then, just as we're about to leave, total freakout. I can't even remember what triggered this, but the hysterics continue down to the car (he must be carried downstairs, as a meltdown usually entails an endless demand for tissues as well as the insistence that he can no longer support his own body weight: "My legs don't work!").

By the time we arrive at the restaurant, about ten minutes from home, the mood has stabilized. So in we go. Order breakfast. So far, so good. Son's oatmeal arrives. He claims to no longer want it. He says it's too hot. We let it cool off. He says he doesn't like oatmeal. Oookay. Then the yelling. The crying. I take him outside, explaining that we can go back in when he's calmed down. We go back in. Another mini-meltdown. I put him on my lap and it passes. He eats well and we leave with equilibrium restored...that is, until we get to the park. It is suggested that he ride in the PlasmaCar we got him for his birthday. The suggestion is not well received, but this is only a minor squall. The antics of the ducks in the lake serve as a welcome distraction (who, after all, does not enjoy duck antics?) and a happy child is brought back home, relaxed and ready for the nap that never comes. Sigh.

Husband takes son out to zoo and a brief visit to Grandma's while I work on a freelance assignment due today. Son returns in excellent spirits. Dinner is prepared while son plays with Play-Doh. Son unwilling to end Play-Doh session in order to eat. Finally agrees to eat, but ONLY to eat peanut butter and Nutella, scooped out of their respective containers with a little, tiny, cheese spreader. I offer this combination on a slice of whole-grain bread, but this triggers yet another tantrum. It is agreed that son will eat "dinner" in his own fashion. I manage to get a fair amount of the actual dinner food (asparagus, bluefish, and brown rice) into him without incident. We listen to the last part of a wonderful recording of A Midsummer Night's Dream (all parts played by Kenneth Branagh and  set to the music of Mendelsohnn). Son enjoys it.

Son does NOT enjoy his "fountain wash" (a sort of sponge-bath thing he gets in the tub since he refuses to take real baths these days). Screaming ensues. Screaming, crying, and coughing. And screaming. Overtired and overwrought. Poor little monkey. Son insists he wants to go to bed wet from his wash. (This is another thing he does, insisting on the opposite of whatever is suggested. We call him The Contrarian).

Between the bathroom and the bedroom, the mood changes yet again. Son (aka "Baby Monkey") is now ready to cuddle with "Mommy Monkey" and drift off to dreamland.

I ponder the ways, good and bad, I parented today. I think of my Baby Monkey Contrarian Boy. I wait until tomorrow for another ride on the world's best roller coaster.