"I see the playground. Do you? I see it!" Yes, he sees it. A giggle catches in his throat. I can't see his face, but I can see his rounded cheeks. He is beaming.
On bad days, we creak and grind. Voices harsh. Postures angular. "Come with me. This way. I'm tired of waiting," I rattle out. A stubborn little body becomes iron. I count one, two, three...ten, to myself. Calling for patience and letting the blood settle.
Today is a good day. Putting my free little child into the carseat yet again, for a long drive to the market, I think, "This is so easy. He's so easy." He sits. He folds his arms under the straps. He waits as I yank on the buckles.
"He's so happy, such a happy kid," I often hear. He is. Does he require me to occasionally, and sometimes not so occasionally, apply pro-wrestling moves such as figure four leg locks in order to put on his jacket and shoes? Oh yes. He sometimes requires two parents to apply submission holds.
After the above scene and once outside, my son might hand a rock to me. I'm still reeling, still feeling like an awful parent. My son has already had a dozen sensory experiences, I'm stuck in a rut. "Get over it. I'm over it. Quit brooding," my son might say.
Today, the jacket and shoes slid on easily. We even laughed about the fingerless gloves that are attached to the jacket - they usually ensnare his hands. It is very irritating for a spirited, independent child to have fingers bent this way and that. And then, sometimes it is funny.