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My Son Josh

 My son is at an age when transitions are especially fraught; if I try to leave the house for a few minutes, it's like a Verdi opera here. Garments are shredded; apples are thrown to the floor.


I think Josh would be clingy in the best of circumstances, but because he has a speech delay, his tantrums have a special force. There are two layers: (1) I don't want you to go and (2) I'm furious because I can't explicitly tell you I don't want you to go.

I get this. I, too, hate transitions. I've eaten Life-with-berries every morning, almost without exception, every week, every month, every year, since my twenties. For a long while, I visited an Italian restaurant every Monday, and the waiters became so irked by my rigid ordering style, they once surrounded my table and literally demanded that I choose something new. I resisted. A ritual is so much more soothing than a transition.

For Josh, there's one thing I've learned to say: "I'm leaving to do some chores now. Your job is to be a good boy and listen to the sitter. Follow her instructions for what to do."

Everyone has a "job": This idea comes from Frances the Badger ("Bedtime for Frances"). And I noticed, in Tomie de Paola's "The Baby Sister," Tomie's mom corners the recalcitrant Tomie and says, "You need to listen to your grandmother. That's how you can help me. I will be home soon."

It's unclear what Josh processes--at least at times. But, the other day, I returned home to good news from the sitter: "Your son only cried for two minutes. Then, he took me by the hand, led me upstairs, and showed me the crib that I needed to put him in."

I take this as progress. I think these sentences meant just as much to me as a (hypothetical) Pulitzer Prize.

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