If a Baby Screams in the Forest...

Screaming is really the worst sound I can currently imagine. Not that I have to imagine it, since NT has chosen screaming as his primary method of communication. I say something highly charged like, "NT, would you like a yogurt?" NT replies with a high-pitched, ear-splitting scream. I would like to take that as, "No thank you, my supremely caring and thoughtful mommy" - but clearly that isn't the sentiment. Other scream-inducing events include leaving any activity that was remotely interesting - even if en route to another one. Getting help with a task, or (potentially worse) being asked if you would like help.

Me: "NT, can I open your popsicle for you?"

NT: "AHHHH! MAMA! AHHHHH!" Loosely translated that means, "Step off, bee-yatch, I am doing this myself! Can't you see that I am practically two years old!?" It goes on like that all day.

I am beginning to see a pattern in my life of how it takes extreme opposites to create the balance. From which mountaintop do I need to shout, "I GET IT!," so, that I can finally be relieved from learning this lesson? I know, I know. It doesn't work like that. If I really 'get it' then I just accept the marvelous duality of my existence and go skipping along. I'm not ready for the mountaintop yet, but venting has helped. I suppose the next time I boldly try to open Nate's car door for him and the obligatory scream occurs, I will sigh through slightly less gritted teeth and think, "Oh man, I love his independent spirit!" After all, sometimes it means he will play quietly by himself while I have my eardrums repaired.