First, I want to thank you all for your kind words and encouragement after my last post. It's amazing that there's so much support out there, and I'm so grateful to be in a place where I'm willing to hear it.
So, in the spirit of appreciating the small things, I'd like to share a story with you. Little Spaghetti is almost two, and he's really started talking. He's been saying single words for months, but lately he's saying sentences and communicating thoughts. Watching a child develop language is pretty darn cool. But sometimes, it's just strange.
There has been more than one occasion over the past couple weeks that - if he was anyone other than my toddler son - I'd have asked him what he was smoking. Sometimes the words just aren't quite there. Other times, he's using the words, I just have no idea why he's saying what he's saying.
For instance, sometimes, he stares out the window at night, then looks at me seriously and says solemnly, "guy." He especially likes to do this on nights when my husband is out of town for work. Unsettling doesn't even begin to describe how I feel about my son telling me there's a guy (who I never see, of course) outside the window in the dark.
Also, at least four times a day, we have the same circular conversation about something completely nonsensical. "Motorcycles get you," he says to me.
"No, no they don't. We are inside; they are outside. Motorcycles do NOT get you," I tell him.
"Motorcycles get you," he insists. No matter how many times I tell him that motorcycles do not, in fact, "get you," he doesn't listen. I'm not even sure where he came up with such an idea. The conversation goes around and around several times, and always ends the same way. Me getting increasingly adamant that the motorcycles will not get him, and him finally saying, "Cars get you." Well, who can argue with that?
And then there was tonight, when his talking mostly just made him sound like he was hallucinating. He was in the bathtub when all the sudden he let out a bloodcurdling shriek. "Eeeeeeeeeeee!"
"What?! What is wrong!?" I shouted, jumping to attention.
"Bugs coming!" he pointed to the faucet. "Bugs! Bugs coming."
"What are you talking about," I said, my blood pressure normalizing. "There are no bugs."
"Yes. Bugs. Coming."
"Where?" I asked. "Where are the bugs."
"Bugs gone," he said, giving me a look that said, "Well, duh, Mom. They aren't there now."
"Alright," I said, "then nothing is wrong."
"No!" he shouted. "Bugs COMING!"
Someone older and wiser than me told me to relax, that he's just developing his imagination. "Imagination" to me has always suggested lands filled with unicorns and magical fairies, not monster motorcycles lurking under beds, bug-infested bathtubs, and creepsters outside the windows.
All I know is that if this is what imagination means, I'm in for a long, bumpy 16 more years 'til this boy goes to college.