At the pool on Wednesday--a mid-week holiday-turned-to-survival-mode--Lucas was climbing on me, over me, nearly into me, it felt. His hands grabbing at my shoulders, my neck, my head. His legs climbing on my legs, attempting my shoulders. Climbing. Pulling. Grabbing. Slapping. Soothing.
This very tactile child was even more tactile than usual. His clamoring was needy; desperate, nearly. He and his brother had been up since 5am when we woke them, dressed them and carried them to the car. His father and I had been up until 2:30am making the emergency arrangements and woke at 4:30am to get dressed ourselves before waking our babes. Then driving Abel to the airport airport for a 6:40am flight, him running to the gate because a closed road necessitated a detour, and of course we were cutting it close anyway. No traffic at 5:30am on a holiday, right?
And so while Nathaniel and I napped at home, the six-year-old did whatever six-year-olds do when they are doing anything to avoid the long-given-up nap: TV, Legos, aimless wanderings through the house.
So that afternoon, with his dad gone to be with his sick grandfather and a group of friends telling him he wasn't in their "club" and couldn't play their pool game, and his mom's attention focused on the suddenly-too-daring-for-his-own-safety 2yo brother, Lucas took the attention he needed by force.
Original post by Smiling Mama. Thanks for reading!