That’s right! My son hates me. Every time I pick him up he cries.
No, I am not being mean to him.
I just pick him up for a nice little daddy-son chat, or hug, or QT (quality time). And sure enough the crying starts.
Some might say that it’s just because I hold him wrong, or because I smell different then mom. But that isn’t the case.
I can tell that he utterly hates by the facial expression he has. It somewhere between constipation and consternation. He puckers up his lips like he might spit at me. Then he just glares at me with a look of terror like I am going to hurt him.
He hates me.
If he is crying and I try to pick him up. He cries even louder. I am not only uncomforting to him. I am his worst nightmare.
He hates me.
I try to play a little game of tickle toes, or belly raspberries, or rocky-rock, and he just looks at me like I belong in a mental institution. Perhaps the fact that I continue to play these games with him is a sign that I do belong in such.
But don’t worry folks. There is one sure fire way to calm him down. It’s almost like having the anesthesiologist administering some high dose of morphine. All it takes to calm him down is for Mom to rescue him.
No, mom can’t just be in the room. In fact, that is worse. He knows there is something better, and he can’t have it. So, on comes more screams of terror.
My son hates me.