Two and terrible
Two today. Two years old. As in “Terrible Two”, the first operator of which you’ve actually been since about 1.5, but now we’re making it official. How are you terrible? Let me count the ways…
- Asymmetrical response to any thwarting at all
- Toothpaste-covered toothbrush ≠ lollipop
- Refusal to eat any food now entering third month
- Favorite toys sharp, deadly, insisted upon loudly
- While I realize this F-word thing is entirely my fault, and while it is funny in its way, it’s got to, I mean GOT TO, stop, and soon
- Where is my Malkoviching contact lens case?
- Let’s tidy up your Lego
® s, Adam. Tidy up. TIDY UP. TIDY UP - If you put your foot in that material in your diaper again I am going to be cross with you. It’s not funny. NOT FUNNY!
- I said STOP SPLASHING!
- If you do not stop jumping on her belly there will be NO BROTHER FOR YOU
This list really could go on ad infinitum, but anyone who has a child over 18 months old will know what I am talking about. Anyone else will probably get to find out eventually, and by then we will be laughing at them. But for now, as the arrival date of your brother draws yet nearer, your mama and I are spending ever more time glaring at each other and wondering aloud how in the Malk this is going to work. Your mother and I have come to the conclusion that you are a “high-maintenance” baby, a “needy” baby, which is to say a “spoiled rotten” baby. Adding to the not-inconsiderable vexation of this is the way you compartmentalize your terrorism so that no one but your parents have ever viewed its full wrath. This results in various grandparents, aunties and uncles, care-givers, and other members of your posse thinking that we are total parenting pussies and that you are an angel straight from heaven. Oh, and that we are liars. The good news here is I am confident you will never be able to maintain this charade of yours during our planned Intro to Jealousy when your brother arrives. This means that during their three-week visit, your Auntie C. and cousin Airdan will get a solid blast of your Malkoviching, and they can carry word of the terror back to the New World, so everyone will know our pain.
Also, we’re thinking we need to train you to expect less, ’cause less is what you’re going to be getting when there’s a new baby in town.
This non-eating thing is causing your mother a great deal of stress, as she is the one who lovingly and painstakingly crafts interesting meals packed with variety and nutrition for you, only to watch you sullenly swirl the food about in interesting patterns. I do realize that there is not a parent alive who has not complained about their child’s unwillingness to eat at one time or another, but it really is getting to a worrisome point. You have palpably lost weight, and where before your heft strained my creaky old body, now picking you up is becoming more and more reminiscent of preparing kindling for a fire. You have also begun the charming additional mealtime activities of spitting out nearly-swallowed food, and even of gagging yourself with a finger or fork. The Karen Carpenter thing is no joke, stickman. EAT.
Other than the F-word thing, which mortifies me, we are really enjoying watching your various vocabularies mushroom. You are getting to be a better mimic all the time, and the little games set off by our slightest remark are endlessly entertaining. Maybe not ‘endlessly’, but quite. Some of them. If I happen to say, ‘pan’, say, off you scamper to the pots-and-pans cupboard, there to bash about like Keith Moon for half an hour, or until the downstairs neighbor comes to tell us she’s calling the police, whichever is sooner. No matter what the word-sparked item is, you will manage to invent a Daft Game for yourself involving it, and that game usually escalates quickly into an ungodly howling (see item #1 on list above) when its rules conflict with the laws of physics or decency.
But some of your joys are more benign. A few weeks ago your mother brought home for you a new toy, a terrycloth crescent moon with a giraffe ["it's a COW!" --T-Bone] on it, and you treasure it of all things. It has broken our hearts during the bizarre two-plus weeks of fog and rain just ended to watch you nightly look for your beloved moon — I mean the real, actual moon, not the terrycloth one — only to be bitterly disappointed. I am happy to be able to give you a clear sky on your birthday. Look, Adam: MOOOÑ!
Happy birthday, baby boy! And say the same to your mama. She is eighteen today.
