There’s a little corner in our house where the living room ends and the kitchen begins. Behind a wooden mantle of sorts, and a little away from where the refrigerator is. This is one of his favourite peekaboo spots.
He stood there, looking at me, tears rolling down his face. He walked away slowly, and grabbed the first toy he found lying.
We had just gotten back from his 18-month vaccinations, and he was pretend cooking with real pots and pans. And kicking the ball alternately, with the talking tom talking at his loudest. I turned off tom. He screamed. And then made a dash for the kitchen to pick up pots more than half his body weight. I wouldn’t allow that, could I. Then the baby did what babies do. He yelled and sat on the floor, yelled some more. Then a grownup did what grownups shouldn’t be doing. I screamed back and picked him up and got him out of the kitchen.
He quietly walked to his spot, not to peekaboo. He looked at me, sad, tears rolling down his eyes.
Hugs and kisses followed. So did tears and guilt.