My Son IS A Handful

He did everything early. He began babbling, rolling over, and attempting to sit up well before his peers. Occasionally he would roll off his blanket and I’d find him giggling with his back against the couch. He hated the bouncers, exersaucers, and play pens. It seemed that even at such a young age he knew he didn’t want to be fenced in.  As I attempted to clean house, cook meals, and shower… I knew I had my hands full. I never wanted a break. I never wanted to miss a minute of it. He was a handful, but I was desperately in love with him.

When he began to crawl and then to walk we quickly learned that our entire house must be baby proofed. It seemed there was no end to the things he could find to get into. My imagination ran wild thinking of ways he might get hurt and quickly trying to stop disasters before they occurred. He got his first black eye while attempting to stand up using the knobs on his dresser.  I cried just as much as he did while he squirmed in my arms. We rushed to the pediatrician’s office where I was told it looked worse than it was and “You will get used to this. He’s going to be a handful.” He was a handful, in the very best way. His endless curiosity and bravery scared me, but also made me feel proud.

Now, at two, he is a ball of emotions. He doesn’t always have the words to say how he’s feeling and sometimes his feelings are too big. When that happens he becomes a handful of tears and loud noises and little fists.  He’s learning and I’m helping him to navigate these big feelings. When he has a meltdown in public, well-meaning strangers sometimes smile knowingly or frown.  Then they usually say “He is a little handful!” Yes he is, I tell them with a smile. It stings my heart that they usually mean it in a negative way.

My son is a little handful. Some days my hands are so full that I’m certain I need more of them.  Even on the worst days, my heart is ten times more full than my hands will ever be.

Written by: Sara Parise