Rex. This boy. He has us all wrapped around his cute, little finger. “Oh, you want to dump my makeup out every single morning and pretend to put it on while I try to get ready? Sure thing. I was hoping you would ask.” “You are requesting your sister remove herself immediately from her mother’s lap so you can take her place? Alright.”
We know we’re spoiling him, but how can we not? Every single thing he does is adorable, thanks to his state of 1-year-old-ness. There’s no arguing that point, so don’t even try.
We’ve been down this road before with each 1-year-old, and know this all eventually works itself out. For now, he can have whatever he wants — even if he wants a pony. I’ll get it for him. I swear.
Lately, he’s taken to giving hugs every 10 seconds. He picks his lucky target, and walks toward him or her with outstretched arms, all the while saying, “Hiiiiiii” in his cute, high-pitched baby voice. He then wraps his arms tight around the calves of the luckiest person in the world, lays his head on that person’s knees, and pats the back of the legs.
Yesterday, I was facing away from him while he did this. He didn’t like that one bit, and began to gruffly grab my legs while grunting and pointing. I figured out I needed to turn around, and it was all “Hiiiiiis” once again. Immediately forgiven. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Maybe.
Getting his way all the time does present a problem or two occasionally. (Or regularly. But whatever. Tuh-mate-oh, tuh-motto.) Like today, when he wouldn’t take a nap because he wanted to wear his shoes. After rolling around in his crib for a while, he started to say the word I have come to dread when said from his crib: “Shooooooo. Shoooooo.”
He’s a little obsessed with footwear. If he’s sad, we need only tell him we’ll put shoes on, and he begins laughing like a loon — giddy from the anticipation of his feet being covered in shoes.
At nap time, we must remember to close his closet door so his shoes are out of sight. Otherwise, if he can see them, he will become depressed by the fact that they are on his closet floor and not upon his feet.
So when I heard him begin his shoe chant today, I knew we were all in for it.
I let it go for a while, hoping he would calm himself down and fall asleep — but no such luck. When I entered his room, I saw an old baby bootie on the floor, no doubt left there by an older sister. It had taunted his poor, delicate, shoeless nerves so badly that by the time I got there, he was face down on his mattress with a tear-stained face and vacant eyes, murmuring “Shoooooo” quietly over and over again. It was as if he had witnessed a murder.
I scooped up the poor, traumatized babe, and quickly put shoes on his feet. Exhausted, but his feet fully covered with the appropriate footgear, he let me wipe his face — and then promptly stood up and walked away, happy as a lark.
Spoiled? Whatever. The boy just needs his shoes.