1. We all know that Quinn takes a plethora of balls to bed with him every night, but tonight he insisted on taking a rolling pin to bed.
2. The other week he carried a pre-packaged salad with him to the bus stop to pick up Sam. He proceeded to demand to carry a salad with him on several occasions over the next several weeks.
3. The child used to be able to not poop for two weeks or more. Now we Miralax the hell out of him, so he has no choice. He still tries though. When we started him on it, he was still able to hold it in for several days.
4. Even if it’s 40 degrees outside, he refuses to wear a coat. It wasn’t until I found him a coat that looked “exactly like Sam’s” that he became willing to wear a coat to pick Sam up at the bus stop. In the rain. If any of you dare to tell him that the inside of his coat is black and not brown and that it’s not reversible like Sam’s, I’ll kill you. I mean it. Don’t test me. (He also made me buy him a backpack that is just like Sam’s, but I think that has more to do with idol-worship than psychosis.)
5. He hates everything about getting dressed and screams and fights wildly the entire time we’re trying to smash him into his clothes. Then he’s totally fine. Until he gets a drop of water on himself and he demands new clothes, only to scream and freak out while we’re trying to re-dress him.
6. The be all, end all reason why Quinn is weird? He doesn’t make tears. You heard me. The boy has never, in his entire life created a tear. Don’t get me wrong, he cries. He cries all the time, but the crying is the dry sort of scream/sobbing that lacks the sympathy-inducing side effect of tears rolling down his face. I spent the first couple months of his life eagerly awaiting the tears. Now I’ve given up. Even when he was a baby and we thought he had a tumor and the people at Children’s Hospital put a tube up his nose and into his stomach for contrast for a CT scan, he didn’t cry. He came close; his eyes watered the smallest amount, but nothing fell out. His doctor doesn’t seem to be as weirded out about it as I am. Evidently he thinks Quinn has enough moisture to keep his eyes healthy, but no more. I think it’s closer to the truth to say he just might be a robot.
I tried to stop writing this, but things kept popping into my mind. Fortunately, I think most of them can be summed up with this sentence: He’s two years old. But the medical oddity inherent in item 6 makes him entirely unique in my mind.