Things Casey likes: Almost everything, but notably ... Cars. Ice cream. Sesame Street. Jellied fruit snacks. Moonbeam Bear. Pushing buttons that do stuff. Learning the names of things. Hiding under blankets. Bathtime. The neighbors' dogs. Whatever Dad's eating (as long as it's not tuna).
Things Casey does not like: Tuna. Diaper changes. 5-10 percent of bedtimes. Teething. And the number one thing that Casey does not like ... *drumroll* ... fathers who try to participate in the parking lot game.
I offer this example. The parking lot game is a game in which Casey moves his growing array of toy vehicles around on the coffee table, lining them up and rearranging their order. I have this idea in my head that children like it when people play their games with them, and I'm usually correct where Casey's concerned -- but the parking lot game is different. It is a game of precision, balance, and deliberation. Fools who interfere with the delicate feng shui of placing the fire truck next to the hot rod might as well be turning on a ceiling fan while you're building a house of cards. But I'm a lot bigger than he is, so what's he gonna do about it? I involve myself anyway.
This weekend Casey was enjoying a rousing game of line-up-the-vehicles, and in a stunning display of sheer audacity, I pushed the sand rover out of position. What followed was the greatest temper tantrum consisting only of body language that I have ever seen. King Kong's roaring, rock-throwing, chest-pounding display has NOTHING on Casey. I was glared at, frowned at, huffed at. The sand rover was hurled to the floor. Other innocent vehicles were individually plucked from the table and hurled to the floor. Each vehicle hurling was punctuated with another glare and another scowl, as if to make sure I understood. See this Mustang, dad? See it crash to the floor? THAT WAS FOR YOU. Arms were folded. Feet were stomped. And always, always more glaring. But don't misunderstand, this was no raw, out-of-control display of toddler emotion. Every action was undertaken slowly, deliberately, and with the most menacing eye contact a 1-year-old can muster. Casey was angry and upset, but just feeling it wasn't sufficient; he wanted me to KNOW he was upset, and he wanted me to know exactly whom he was upset at. And all in near-total silence. If you rear-ended a mime on the way to work one morning, this was what exchanging insurance information might have been like. I got everything but the kiss of death, and that's probably just because it's too sophisticated for Casey for now.
When Casey's anguished over something, I usually try to be comforting, but this was really a sight to see. There was no way I was going to interrupt this show before it was over. His mom and I simply watched to see how far he'd take it. Eventually he slowed down, and it's just as well, because Mommy and I couldn't keep straight faces any longer anyway. I helped him pick up his cars and resume his game, and then I got the hell out of his way, like he'd wanted in the first place.
I don't mind much that he was mad at me. I got the message, and I won't interrupt his car games lightly again. But when it comes down to it, this was a proud moment. Sure, the only words the kid says are "car" and "oh no," but who says my child can't communicate?
