Mama/Mamma

We have a four year old now, one who is transforming hourly into a very Big Boy. And a ten month old, who could probably eat a car if we fed it to him in small enough bits. Tomorrow is the last of Jonah's three parties, a joint one with another boy at school, with pizza and cupcakes and entertainment by the dads. I can't wait! Perhaps most of all because I don't have to do much for it other than get the pizza. Somewhere in there, I turned 39 as well. And I'm going to stay that age for the next ten years.

So, the yelling. I'd like to say it has diminished a bit. The anger, too. Maybe I've turned it down just a notch or two. Maybe I don't have the heart to yell at a boy who's in birthday mode. Maybe it's because when Jonah cries, Abe now starts crying in solidarity. Or maybe it's because Jonah's gotten more sophisticated, and has realized that he can call me on it. Last week he made an attempt to pour his own milk while I was in the other room changing Abe's diaper. I knew he would probably make an attempt, and I specifically told him not to. I came back to find a pool of milk on the table, Jonah soaked in it, and I started yelling almost immediately. Jonah started crying (which he typically hasn't, not until now), and saying, "Don't yell at me!" After cleaning it up, I may have also said something like, "Drink your damn milk." This also perturbed him and he protested, "Don't say that word!!!"

Could it be that I just needed him to grow up a little? Just a hair's breadth of growing up? After that episode I really haven't had the heart to get mega-pissed at him. He is also becoming savvy about "mistakes" versus pure naughtiness. And I can't really yell at him if he made a mistake, can I? So I guess we are going to give mistakes a wide berth for a bit.

A couple of nights ago, Jonah chose his Italian picture dictionary as bedtime reading. Maybe an odd choice, but not for my language-obsessed little guy (he has these dictionaries for Spanish and Hebrew, too). He asked us which one of us spoke Italian, and I raised my hand. He asked me to talk to him in Italian, and we wound up doing the entire bedtime routine in Italian. He loved it! And it was amazing to see how quickly he was understanding the things I was asking him to do. Then we settled down and I pointed out words and told him how to say them. It wasn't until later that I realized another possible reason he was so enthusiastic about his Italian Mom: She doesn't yell at him.

Italian--Moms--Yelling. This string of three took me straight back to my shared apartment on Via Aretina, in Florence, spring and summer 1992. My bedroom wall adjoined the kitchen of our neighbors, a family with two young boys. On a regular basis, the mother would be cooking and all of a sudden burst into angry invective at one of her sons (probably the younger one, as wailing would quickly ensue). I would lie in bed feeling awful for the little guy, and wondering how any mother could be so quick to anger at such a young kid.

Signora Vieri, I'm sorry I thought you such a bad, evil mom.