Stephapalooza ~ Part Two, Part One
I wrote this eons ago and never finished. Thought you might enjoy. I will make it my aim to finish it in a timely fashion. E.
P.S. ~ Forgive me for last night’s deprecation.
Now, the the story part two, part one:
We’re heading back from Florida and Silas needs a bath so bad that we look like negligent parents. Aside from the oily coils of hair framing his face, the dirt streaked on his cheeks, and the stinky nature of his feet, he is also covered in bumps and scrapes and mosquito bites. I suppose, though, that filth and fracture on a toddler are just marks of the fun that was had. Belt notches, baby style.
So, yeah, Silas had a hell of a time. Maybe a better time than I did.
At the start of Stephapalooza, before too many guests arrived, I thought I might slip Silas into slumber in the guest bedroom. You know maybe the balloons and the outfits and the early guests and the hours of preparation hadn’t clued Silas into the fact that a party was brewing. Yeah, right.
But, still, Ms. Rigid Rules was going to come to the rescue. Again.
It seemed like an innocent plan. I’d just get Silas nestled in his jammies, brush his teeth, read The Great Butter Battle, ignore the music and laughter filtering in through the bedroom window, and all would be well in the world.
Well, Silas had other plans.
How dare he!
As soon as we even set foot in the guest bedroom, he started into a fit of unbelievable rage. Drooling and spitting and hitting. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a pretty site.
I immediately shoved Paul from the room and locked the door.
It would be me and the toddler beast going head to head. No tickets available.
(Actually, we had one ring-side spectator: my friend Melisa, a mother of two, who was trying to support me in this effort to have the upper hand.)
So, there we were, screams and scratches being– thankfully!– drown out by Michael Jackson, Belle and Sebastian, Outkast. I tried rocking, soothing, shouting, pounding, reading, dancing, and deep breathing. Nothing, absolutely nothing, short of physical restraint, kept Silas from his persistent Banshee-call.
After 15 minutes, I admittedly began to sweat. As I wiped the perspiration from my brow, I began to worry that we were ruining the atmosphere. Being Gainesville, an unrivaled party town and a city in which very few young people have children, I didn’t know if the stiletto-heeled guests were appreciating the wild screeching of an imprisoned two-year-old. Melisa phoned her husband, who was out among the guests, to assess the damage. Apparently, aside from those unlucky guests who had to use the bathroom just across from torture chamber, the music was successfully masking our match. Given the green light, I donned my mama boxing gloves and continued with my arsenal of tantrum squelchers.
After 30 minutes, a paper towel airplane came sliding under the door. Scrawled in my mother’s handwriting across the breast of the plane were the words “I’ll take him home now! Just make it stop!” I ripped the airplane to shreds and then chewed the leftover pieces. There was no turning back now.
Here is where I’d like to clarify something. In case you think I’m crazy. I was in no way attached to Silas’s pre-prescribed bedtime. I had been prepared to let him party. But, as I am new to this tantrum thing, I didn’t feel like it was right to let him scream his way into getting his way. I know you’re supposed to choose your battles. Well, I chose this one.
Bur, nothing, nothing, nothing would keep Silas from screaming. Not tricks, not toys, not ignoring him. He is one goal-driven SOB. (Wait a minute! What does that make me???)
Just as Melisa and I started prying open a bottle of wine with a pocket knife, prepared to hunker down and just witness this rabid bawling son of mine, a loud rapping started on the bedroom door. “It’s been an hour!” came my husband’s angry voice.
“Has not,”I yelled.
“Has too,” he started back. “Just give it up!”
Give it up? Me? I give nothing up.
“You’re causing a scene and you’re messing with his head! Just let the kid come out and party!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“No!”
I was about to sling a nasty string of insults out the door when Melisa stopped me. “Let’s just go have fun! So, the kid wins this one.”
Wins! Wins! That means I lose. I wasn’t so sure about this.
September 19th, 2009 at 9:19 pm
even though i was there, and remember the hot little room well, this story is actually really, really entertaining. and he did have a really great time at the party.