There's that old saying that the sins of the father will be revisited by his son, or something along those lines. I don't remember it exactly. In short, I believe it's predicting that your children will do to you what you did to your parents. I've always been a little afraid of this prediction because I wasn't exactly a model child. In fact, not long ago my father and I had a conversation that went something like this:
Me: "Dad, what was I like as a small child?"
Dad: (without hesitation) "You were a hellion. An absolute hellion. Don't get me wrong, I mean, we *liked* you and all, but..."
Me: (stunned silence)
So there you have it. I'm sure that *my* father has been greedily rubbing his hands together, waiting for me to be blessed with my own little hellion. Well, Dad, your day has finally arrived.
Little Husband, for sport, enjoys nothing better than screaming at the top of his little lungs. I don't mean cry-screaming. I mean one long drawn out blood curdling scream. He does this when he's being tickled. He does this when he's bored. He does this when he's frustrated/angry/tired/you-name-it. He does this in stores. He does this in restaurants. He especially likes to do this at his paternal grandparents' house. Yesterday he did it all. Day. Long. At one point late in the day and at the height of his screaming fits, he would narrow his eyes and throw a death glare my way. I swear he was trying to turn me to stone.
On the bright side, while his mouth is wide open I use the opportunity to examine his gums for budding teeth since he won't let me do so otherwise.
I thought this behavior was pretty normal--a phase of sorts--but this weekend we were among friends and every time he let one rip, everyone would turn toward me and Husband with a bemused, "Whoa! He's pissed." That reaction tells me that this behavior is not normal. Me thinks my son has learned how to throw one hell of a temper tantrum.
Of course, when *I* was younger--MUCH younger--this was in fact very normal behavior for me. I remember screaming so loud that my throat would be raw for days. I remember grabbing onto banisters and door jams while my mother and older brother struggled to carry me to my room. I remember being locked in my bedroom and attempting to bash a hole in the plaster walls with my metal roller skates (my father damn near killed me when he got home from work and found out what I was doing). Oh yes, I remember throwing tantrums galore and consequently I'm afraid. Very, very afraid.
We're going to visit my family in August and we'll be staying with my parents. I can already imagine my dad standing in a doorway, arms folded and chuckling to himself while he surveys Little Husband revisiting my sins upon me.
I am so screwed.