From the window of Wheels’ violin lesson, a struggling mother wrestled her son to the ground outside the storefront.  The boy was nearly two, blonde, bullishly stout and filled with determination.  His blue fire truck shirt twisted, exposing his belly, as she picked him up, and tried to calm him through whispers and shushes; but his mind and mouth only shouted “Car! Cool car! CAAAAAR!”  His body tensed with all its might, and then went dead weight, forcing her to place his heavy load down.  With that, life restored, he sprinted for known kid heaven and parent hell, 5 and Below.

Unrelenting to his demands, she raced after him, scooped him up at heaven’s gate and carried him over shoulder away, car-less. The battle resumed.  Her second son, unfazed, used to the ordeal, was sent in to assess the release of another sibling’s lesson as she continued to deflect and endure the writhing demon.

Employees from the upscale hair salon, nail salon, 5 and Below, and JoAnn Fabrics, emerged checking to see if a child was endangered. She sheepishly smiled and kept repeating, “He’s two. Wants a car. No way!” with equal over my dead body determination.

Finally broken, the boy oozed from her arms, still yelling “caaaaar” but too tired to pursue. He melted face first over her shoes, nose smashed on the nasty gum riddled concrete of the portico.  Her hands flew to cover her face and her shoulders began trembling.

As her hands pulled away, my out of body experience over, it is me… and I cannot stop laughing. Cry or laugh, this time laugh. It was all I could do.

To add salt in the wound, a woman approached and disclosed, “Eighteen months to two years is the worst.  It’ll get better. Hang in there.” As she was the third person this week to utter that exact line to me, she confirmed my knowledge that I looked like a total amateur. Fantastic.

How have Stewie and I created such toxic, public interactions?

Ok, ok.  So I resent him a little.  I am sorry, but I do.  Before he came along, life was easy.  The older boys played on their own together, everyone was potty trained, evenings were bliss for the first time in 5 years, dinner was almost enjoyable (almost), everyone was in school! Instantly, we were back at the starting gates with way more afternoon activities, homework, stress.  Bonding took a backseat and he became the purse I grabbed on the way out the door to… something. Perhaps that is what is missing…

So, I made a concerted effort to be more Stewie present.

The result culminated at Malcolm, my son in the middle’s, preschool graduation. Stewie, uninterested and unimpressed, mean mugged kids on the playground, took off in any direction Malcolm was not, wolfed lunch, and bee lined for the playground again, alone. He toddled from the picnic tables through the woods, looking over his shoulder to determine if more speed was necessary. Stopping at the fenced entrance, he eyed me, challenging me to stop him.  If I did, screams would reverberate through the graduation. If not, possible limb reorientation from a fall down the windy slide. I stared.

His soft, fine blonde hair, covered his forehead and eyes wide, yet squinting his thoughts. Mouth, as always, turned slightly down in a frown, body defiant, but still.

Like a rising gasp of air, I saw my exact image.  He is me. All my wonder and horror. My independence. My determination and stubbornness.  My Blackburn-ness. My boy.

And that is why we struggle.  It is hard enough to struggle with knowing yourself, but knowing your child, who is all you, is deceiving.  It should be easy, because you know what is coming. But knowing what’s coming, blinds you.

Slowly, with refreshed insight, I walked to save him from breakage, so we both could cheer for Malcolm. I stopped, knelt, and braced myself for the impending onslaught. He forcefully threw his arms around my neck, whispered “Mommy” and kissed my lips.

My Grinch heart grew three sizes. Thank goodness he loves his kisses, just like me.

We’ll get there…