My Big Boy
I awoke at 7:00 am to the familiar sound of my son crying. He was only three years old, so this was a common way for me to wake up each morning. My husband had already left for work at his grueling job at a warehouse nearly an hour away. I pulled myself out of bed, sad to leave my soft pillow behind. Out the window, I saw the sun barely rising over the muted green fields, casting long shadows from the occasional cow that inhabited them. I shuffled down the hall and into my son’s room. He lay tangled in blankets, still crying.
“Hey, baby, what’s wrong?” I cooed, and removed his troublesome blankets. He stopped crying and stretched.
I chuckled, and lifted him in my arms, balancing him on my hip. He was so heavy now. I slowly wobbled into the hall, and down the dark narrow staircase to the kitchen, my son squirming as I went.
“Breakfast time?” I suggested playfully, setting him carefully down in his high chair.
He giggled and nodded emphatically. I noticed he barely fit in the chair anymore. He seemed to be growing a lot lately, which of course wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary, but it worried me. His father and I were both rather short (I was five feet tall, and my husband was five foot seven). I hoped he wouldn’t stop growing too soon, and end up short as I was. Not that it would matter to me, but I didn’t want him to struggle too much growing up.
He babbled on as toddlers do while I cooked some pancakes, talking about some kid’s show. My ‘mom brain’ couldn’t recall the title. I think it involved some brightly-colored animal.
“Mama, hungry!” he demanded after a few minutes, growing bored with his fantasies.
“Food’s almost done,” I assured him.
I flipped the pancakes out of the pan and onto a plastic plate that was displaying a Muppet’s smiling face. I carefully cut the pancake into little bite-size mushy pieces, and brought it over to him.
“Here we go,” I said, sitting down next to him. I loaded up the fork and served him a bite. He gleefully wolfed down the pancakes in under two minutes. I was surprised, but supposed since he was growing so much lately, he must be hungry.
I wondered when the last time I measured him had been. I checked the door frame where we made the marks (my son from when he could stand, and my husband and I, as a joke), and saw it had been a few weeks. It was probably silly, but I thought I would measure him again. He just seemed so much taller.
I called him over. He trotted over, a toy truck gripped in his meaty toddler fist.
“Momma’s gonna measure you, okay?” I said. I retrieved a pen and book from the kitchen, to get an accurate height.
My son backed up to the door frame and straightened up proudly. I set the book on his head and made the mark.
As he flitted off to continue playing, my heart skipped a beat. He’d grown nearly four inches. That couldn’t be right, I thought. But maybe… maybe he was just a bit faster than average? I made a mental note to call the pediatrician. I didn’t want to bother him with such a minor question, but I thought it would be best to know.
I spent the rest of the morning tidying up the kitchen and living room, though that area was rather pointless as my son’s toys were inevitably strewn across the floor as soon as I’d finished.
By eleven a.m., I could tell he was getting fussy again, so I dug around in the cupboard for a snack. Then I’d have to try to get him to nap. He got very cranky if he didn’t get enough sleep, and often took a morning and afternoon nap, even at this age. I always assumed he was just tired out from how energetically he played. Plus, with how much he was eating, that was probably making him tired too. I made another mental note to ask the pediatrician. I didn’t want him to get overweight.
I found some dried fruit, and coaxed my son back over to the table to try to feed him. He scarfed down the fruit as if he hadn’t eaten in days. I shook my head.
“Gosh, you’re hungry,” I chuckled. I pulled some yogurt out of the fridge, and tried to feed him some, but after the first bite, he slammed his little fist onto his high chair tray.
“No,” he said stubbornly.
“You don’t want yogurt?” I asked tiredly.
“No,” he said again. His bottom lip stuck out in a pout.
“Well, mommy needs to get some work done today, so she doesn’t have time to make something right now,” I said, trying not to be too exasperated.
“No,” my son said. His face had turned red as it often did before an incoming tantrum.
“Alright,” I sighed, not having the energy to argue with a three year old. “Momma will make you something. What do you want?”
It was probably a bad idea to leave it up to the three year old in general, but he certainly wasn’t making it easier. “I want… ice cream!” he declared.
“You can’t have ice cream right now,” I said. “Why don’t you keep eating your yogurt?”
His pouty bottom lip trembled, and I saw tears begin to form. “No yogurt,” he complained.
“Well, let me see—” I began, turning towards the pantry, but was interrupted by the alarming noise of breaking plastic.
I whipped around, and saw that my son had somehow managed to snap his high chair tray in half. I’d been under the impression the chair was made more resilient than that. Either that or my son was insanely strong, but… that couldn’t be right.
“Honey, calm down,” I said sternly. “Momma will find you something to eat, but you can’t break things.”
I rushed to his side and removed the broken plastic before he could hurt himself. He still looked angry. Almost formidable, as far as babies go.
“No yogurt,” he said again. He was crying now, his face scrunched up and red with irritability. He beat his small hands against the kitchen table, his chunky legs kicking.
“Okay,” I said, but I was distracted by the force at which he was pounding his fists. Cracks had appeared in the solid wooden dining table. It couldn’t be real, I thought. I must be dreaming.
With a final kick, my toddler had managed to break the sturdy wooden leg of the dining table. I was in shock.
I pulled him out of his chair. He eyed me angrily, but I matched his gaze. He still wriggled, but seemed more tired out now. He still whimpered, but it was less intense.
“Nap time,” I said angrily, but my voice shook. I led him upstairs, holding his hand, and as we passed the markings on the door frame, I saw he had already surpassed his measurement from just a few hours ago, by two or three inches at least. What the hell was going on?
I thankfully managed to get him to sleep at around eleven twenty. I exited his room as quietly as possible, and went back downstairs. I decided to call the pediatrician.
Nobody picked up. I cursed quietly, but figured they might be at lunch. I left a message.
“Hi, this Helen Cain, I’m just calling, cause I had a question regarding my three year old. He’s grown an awful lot, and uh, he’s eating a lot too, maybe too much, but I just wanted to check in. Give me a call back if you’re not too busy.” I left my number, in case they didn’t have my file on hand, and sat down on the stained couch, pondering the situation.
I wasn’t crazy. I might be lacking in sleep, but I knew this was real. The damaged table leg in the dining room proved that.
How was he so strong? And now, growing so fast?
I felt sick. What would this mean for him?
I did a load of laundry and was folding clothes when I thought I’d better check up on him.
I tiptoed upstairs, leaving the half-folded clothes on the couch.
I peeked through his door, and saw his motionless shape under his blanket. I could hear steady breathing. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I was overreacting.
I jumped when I heard my phone ringing in my pocket. “Shit,” I said, scrambling to answer it before it woke my son, but I knew it’d be too late. I could hear him shift in his bed.
“Hello?” I said curtly.
“Hi, this is Pam, from Dr. Stephens’ office?” a chipper voice said. “I have the doctor here for you, to answer your question you mentioned.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The line clicked and Dr. Stephens came on. “Hi, Helen,” he said calmly. “I got your message, sorry, we were out at lunch—”
“Yes, um,” I interjected briskly. “I measured my son this morning, and he’d grown about three and a quarter inches since last month, and a few hours later, he was probably around two or three inches taller. Plus, he’s been eating really quickly, and been cranky—”
“Alright,” the doctor said in an annoyingly patronizing voice. “Children that age do grow fast, it’s possible he’s hit a growth spurt. It’s normal for them to eat a lot, and of course, have a temper.”
“You don’t understand,” I said, irked now that he clearly wasn’t taking me seriously. “He literally grew at least six inches today.”
“That’s not possible,” the doctor said firmly. “I’m sure it was just a mistake in measurement. Kids can’t grow that much in one day. He likely is hitting a growth spurt, but you probably just measured wrong.”
I sighed, irritated. “I didn’t measure wrong,” I insisted.
“Helen, if you have any other problems, please do call us,” Dr. Stephens said shortly. “Have a good day.” The line went dead.
I angrily hung up.
I jumped when I saw that my son was standing by the door.
I stared at him in disbelief. He was taller than me. Granted, I wasn’t very tall, but it was unheard of for a three year old to reach this height.
He towered there in his room, his comically misproportioned body looming in front of me. His hair was messy from the nap, and to my dismay, he looked grumpy. I wished I hadn’t woken him.
“I hungry,” he boomed. His voice was still child-pitched, but it was somehow much louder and more commanding than before.
“Okay,” I whispered timidly. “Let’s go downstairs.”
He stomped past me, and I stood there for a moment, taken by the bizarre situation. It’s not every day you see a five-foot-something toddler.
I hurried after him.
He sat at the broken dining room table, a surreal and almost hilarious image.
“What do you want for a snack?” I asked. I tried to remind myself this was still my son, regardless of the circumstances.
“Cake,” he said decidedly.
I rushed about the kitchen, unwilling to find out what would happen if I displeased him. His tantrums were bad enough when he was normal sized.
I was relieved to find I did have the necessary ingredients for his favorite, simple chocolate cake with chocolate icing.
I threw it together, and put it in the oven as fast as I could.
“How long?” my son whined.
“Not long,” I promised.
Once the cake was done, I pulled it out of the oven and began to try to spoon-feed him, as I often did. He seemed to enjoy the cake, and I felt relieved.
He ate the entire cake in one sitting, and near the end, he took the small spoon from me to shove the rest of it in his mouth. The handle of the spoon snapped under his grip.
“Why don’t you go play in the living room?” I suggested, my voice shaking.
He seemed alright with this idea, and lumbered into the living room, chocolate still surrounding his mouth. I sighed, my heart pounding. I sat at the kitchen counter, watching him play in the living room.
Everything seemed to be going alright, until I heard him shriek with pain.
“Are you okay?” I called out to him, scared to get too close.
“Pinched my finger!” he wailed. I saw he had been playing with one of his wooden toys. Pinches were common, but he’d never had a meltdown like this over it.
“It’s okay, let me get you a Bandaid,” I said, opening the drawer near me and searching for a bandage. “Owies happen, but you’re okay.”
He continued wailing, ignoring my attempt at calming him. I tried to approach him, but he began to fling toys into the wall, and I thought it best to keep my distance.
He stood, still towering over me, and began kicking things too. I noticed some of the toys had been literally torn apart.
“Ssh, it’s okay,” I said.
He was shaking his head, obviously still distressed. I backed up.
He locked eyes with a bookshelf across the room.
I knew what he was going to do a split second before he did it.
“No, we don’t break things—” I protested, but it was too late. He wasn’t listening to me anymore.
He gripped the bookshelf on either side, and tore it from the wall, the small screws that had bolted it there, to protect him, went flying. He threw it into the wall, the wood shattering and the books toppling everywhere. He was much taller now, his head brushing the ceiling.
I ran. Like the terrible mother that I was, I ran.
I reached the top of the narrow staircase and panted, slumped against the wall on the landing. What could I do? Call the police? Could I risk that? They might harm him….
I considered calling my husband, but I knew he didn’t have his phone on him at work.
“Momma,” I heard my son’s voice call. My heart hurt. I wanted to go to him, to comfort him. He was still almost a baby, after all. “Momma, where are you?”
I didn’t respond, against my motherly instincts.
“Momma!” he cried.
Maybe just a look, to see if he was okay.
I crept down the stairs, and looked into the living room. He stood there, now almost crouching due to his height. His chubby fists were clenched, and his eyes peered at me from his oversized head.
“Momma, hungry!” he sobbed.
I couldn’t deny him food, I thought. What kind of a parent would I be?
I approached him slowly, so as not to alarm him. “Momma will make food,” I said. “What food do you want?”
“All food,” my son said. He looked pleased now, satiated by the idea of something to eat, despite having just eaten an entire chocolate cake.
I headed to the kitchen and did my best. I made the frozen pizzas I had in the freezer, and cooked all the meat I could find. I made more pancakes, and microwaved anything I could. I displayed it to him messily on the dining room table.
He sat down on the floor, now too tall to stand. He giggled at the food. He ate it all in under three minutes. “More food, momma!” he shouted.
“I don’t have more food,” I said. “I’m sorry, baby.”
His face began to turn red again. “Hungry! Momma! Hungry!” He pounded his fists into the table, effectively destroying it the rest of the way.
I backed away from him, and rushed back up the stairs. I could hear him come after me, still crying.
I cowered at the top of the stairs, and, to my relief, saw that he was now too large to fit through the narrow hall. He reached his meaty arm blindly up the stairwell, randomly thrashing trying to grab me. Luckily, I was out of reach, for now. He backed away out of sight. I ran to my bedroom, panicking.
I was trying to figure out a plan (I couldn’t drive away, my husband had the only car, and I still didn’t want anyone to harm him), when I felt the house begin to shake.
Something exploded through the floor next to me. I realized it was one of his beefy hands, now nearly as big as me.
The rest of him soon followed, sitting there, chest deep in the floor.
“Momma!” he said gleefully.
“Hi baby,” I whispered. I was feeling a strange mixture of awe and fear.
“Momma, play!” he said. He reached out and grabbed me by my forearms, and began to fling me around.
I could barely hold my head up, the force of his playing was too strong. He played with me as though I were a rag doll, babbling on about the same TV show from this morning. I tried to be as floppy as possible, but he soon lost interest in me, and tossed me aside. I landed wrong on my ankle, and I felt something snap. I cried out in pain, but my son wasn’t even looking at me anymore. He was almost too big for the house.
I tried to find my phone, to call my husband, to warn him, but it had been crushed.
I knew my husband would be home soon, the sun was getting lower in the sky.
My son was still growing, his head reaching the ceiling again. He still sat in the hole he’d made, now playing with pieces of the floorboards as if they were blocks. Or rather, popsicle sticks.
I heard my husband’s truck pull up into the front drive.
I shouted, but I doubted he would be able to hear me.
My son turned towards the sound of his father arriving home, and a smile broke across his face. “Daddy home!” he shouted.
The house shook as he stood, his head breaking through the roof. He plowed through the rest of the house, and stomped out towards my husband. I couldn’t see what happened, as I’d fallen among the rubble of the house. I just heard my husband scream, and then a brief silence, before I heard my son start to cry again.
I lifted myself up, trying to lift a beam off my leg. The house hadn’t fully collapsed, I was still in the second story. I ran to the window, and saw my three year old bounding across the field, probably over twenty feet tall. The cows scattered at his approach. Soon enough, I’d lost him in the distance.
I sat in my destroyed house, at a loss of what to do. I knew I needed to check on my husband, but I didn’t know if I wanted to see what my son had done. But my God, what was he going to do next? Would he continue to grow? I could only hope he would slow down eventually, and come back home. After that, I knew there wasn’t much I could do. But I could try to control him, and take care of him. I was his mother, after all.
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