My screamer

My son is a screamer.
I wondered today when he was screaming at me for the dozenth time or so whether he does this at preschool or church or with other adults. I think they would have told me, because I can assure you to hear it is like having your eardrums ripped out. You won't likely soon forget it.
I don't think I could ever attempt to be this loud! Is this a special gene that only 3-year-olds possess, because it dawns on me that Abby might have done this? But my memory seems short-lived, as I have erased all negative behavior associated with her third year. Trust me, it was an ugly phase.
"I'm getting better at this," I thought this morning as I exhibited stunning patience while talking him through his dressing routine. I would have yelled back at Abby if she were screaming her frustrations directly in my face about not being able to get her pants on. Of course, I'm learning and growing as a mom. Plus, she could dress herself at 2. But here my boy is 3 1/2 and struggling.
"OK. First ... put ... one ... leg ... in ... your ... underwear. Now ... the ... other," I said deliberately. "Woo-hoo!!! You did it. I KNEW you could," I yelled in my best over-pronounced cheerleader tone. I figure my dramatic reaction would be good for his self confidence.
We repeated our roles for pants. As I was several syllabols into my cheering, the screaming errupted. The pants were on backward. (That much I realized.) But he did manage to put them on by himself, one leg in each hole. This was a victory, right?
Wrong. Ryker was NOT happy, and my cheering was only intensifying the screams.
"I don't like these jeans," he screeched out.
"OK. Well, what would you like to wear?," I replied.
"Comfy pants," he said, sticking his top lip out to emphasize his complete determination to rule the world. Well, the house anyway.
"OK. Get them."
Again, they went on backwards, but he did it -- alone. This is definitely a Mommy victory.
Next the shirt. I didn't have high expectations. It's really not his fault. His head is huge. Really huge and totally working against his favor on this dressing alone issue.
I tried very hard to restrain the inner-mommy desire to help. It was challenging, as he was again screaming and clearly frustrated. Part of his head was poking out, one arm in, one arm out.
He stopped his insane screaming, looked at me and begged.
"YOU can do this," I insisted, cheerleader smile plastered to my face.
"No I can't."
This exchange went on for a while. Then I walked him through it, showing him how to grab onto the vacant sleeve to gain leverage into the head hole. It worked!
Whew! What a proud boy he was, as he walked off with his confident "I dressed myself" strut into the living room.
What a proud momma I was. I resisted the desire to get the dressing -- and more importantly the screaming -- over with by stepping in and doing it myself.
Of course, two hours later, it was a repeat performance. This time he was screaming his "someone is chasing me and wants to kill me" scream because Abby had moved the stepstool out of the bathroom and he couldn't reach the faucet to wash his hands.
Deep breath, momma. Deep breath.