Have you ever seen a fish flopping in a puddle of water on a dock? It was like that. That sort of unbridled, thwacking energy flinging from side to side combined with the power of at least two cheetah cubs took over my son this evening and wouldn't let go. It was rather amazing, actually.
It's sort of been climbing a scale from "eh" to "oh boy" to "HE HAS TO STOP" over the past month and just tonight my dear friend Jennie asked me, after I told her that there was sadly no more Ritalin left in our day, "Is there anything you can give him to calm him down?" I had to say, "No, no there's not. Maybe a Mountain Dew. I really don't know. I called his doctor."
I tried "jumping" him upside-down on my lap; he flounced off. I tried bouncing him upright on the ball; he purposely fell over. I tried squishing him; he squeezed out. So we went back to brushing. I think it worked. Either that or he finally pooped out. The effect wasn't immediate, though, like in the past, so it was difficult to tell. I need to give it a few more days. Brushing is a pain, but it's better than Fish Cheetah Boy.
So anyway, we're moving on Sunday. I am so excited because it's a ground floor and it has a pool and a playground. We're going to stomp our feet all day long on that ground floor. And I've been such a high-strung mess at home trying to avoid being the recipient of any more delightful notes that I think it's rubbing off on Punkin.
But just like he always does, he brought me back down to earth with a good laugh. He hates when I wash his hair because I have to dump water on his head. So tonight while he's in the bath, before I even have a chance to break out the soap, he turns to me with the water cup and says, "Ready? One more time!" and I got a (very much deserved) face full.