Nobody, and I mean nobody, can destroy even a remotely fragile ego like a two year-old. I think a two year-old might even be able to destroy a healthy ego. In fact, I bet if I could scramble up an army of two-year-olds that I could perhaps terrorize and take over the world. Or at least the city I live in.
If you haven’t guessed, this has been a tough week on me. My oldest son, the two year-old, went back to his morning preschool this year. He has two beloved teachers: Miss Annie and Miss Val.
Now, the school always talks about preparing you for your kid’s separation anxiety. Well, my son has never exhibited separation anxiety. In fact, his first day at in this new preschool class he marched right in and began playing at the sand table like he owned the place. After all, he is two years old. He probably does think he owns the place.
No, no. Separation anxiety did not occur for my son at the beginning of the day. He waited for that little number to crop up until it was time to go home.
First he said, “No Daddy, no Daddy take home!” This is always fun to hear in front of your child’s teachers. He might as well have said, “No Daddy, don’t beat me with a big stick like you did last night!”
Anyway, after some cajoling, I finally wrangled his enormous backpack on him and got him down the hall into the elevator. But when he realized he was going home, he collapsed into an unmanageable heap on the floor of the elevator. In front of other parents and children.
I must tell you at this point that I had my two month-old son strapped to my front like a bizarro world tandem sky dive unit. So any sudden movements sent my youngest son into a grunting, lurching state of impending spit-up.
I ended up having to pick up this now limp 40 pound flour sack of a two year-old and carry him upstairs (that’s right the elevator doesn’t even stop on the floor I need — it goes to the basement then I have to walk up stairs) and out into the parking lot to the car. I say 40 pounds, because his backpack easily weighs 15 pounds.
So, I get him into his car seat and the screaming begins … from both of them. Honestly, I’m surprised some Amber-alerted good cop didn’t tackle me after shooting me in the butt with his taser.
My two year-old was screaming, “No, no, no go home!”
He had grabbed both straps to his car-seat and was not allowing me to buckle him in. All the while, I was desperately trying not to crush my terrified two month-old who was, if you remember, strapped to my chest like some hairless koala.
Side Note: I dictated this into my Dragon Diction program on the iPad. It translated the spoken word “koala” into the apparently more cogent and universally understood phrase, “call Wawa.” I am particularly confounded by it’s choice to capitalize the “W” in “Wawa.” What does this machine know that I do not? Troubling.
I finally got the screaming two year-old strapped in and the wailing two month-old in his seat, then we started this rolling 19th-century insane asylum on wheels in the direction of home. When we pulled into the driveway my two year-old stopped screaming his monosyllabic banshee wail so he could change his tune to, “No go home! No go home! See Annie! See Annie! No daddy!”
I got the screaming two month-old into the house. Then went to get my bellowing two year-old who was now desperately trying to hold his car seat’s chest strap together so that I could not get him out of the car.
We struggled for sometime.
I was pretty sure this was it for me.
But, I got him into the house, got his shoes off, and finally calmed down by saying, “Can you just listen to Daddy for a second?”
Inexplicably he stopped screaming and looked at me, his lip quivering, tears running down his face. I said, “Would you like to play for five minutes or go directly to take a nap?”
I may as well have said, “Here’s a new fluffy kitten. Let me to kill it for you.”
He absolutely lost his ever-loving mind. “No nap! No daddy! No daddy touch me! I want Annie! I want Annie! No Daddy touch me!
So I said, “I guess you just want to go directly to Nap.”
Now, I didn’t think it could get worse. But now he started this thing where it sounds like he’s just moments away from vomiting everything that could ever be vomited in the world at once. So, I swiftly moved him into his crib saying, “Do you want apple juice? Do you want milk? Do you want water?”
He screamed, “No, no, no!”
I put him down and he began shaking the edge of his crib like he was trying to start a prison riot. I said, “Daddy doesn’t like it when you’re this angry. It makes Daddy sad.” Then I went to smooth his hair.
He lurched back into the far corner of the crib and yelled, “No Daddy touch. No Daddy touch.”
Now, this naturally crushed me. It boot-heeled what was left of the cigarette butt-end of my ego. And, quite frankly, I didn’t know what to do. So I left him in his crib to go attend to my other screaming child.
But after five minutes the two year-old’s screaming did not abate. So, I got him some apple juice and I walked back into his room. He stopped screaming and he looked at me with the apple juice. I went to get a tissue and folded it turning back to him, as he scurried back to the corner of his crib screaming, “No Daddy touch! No Daddy touch!”
I said, “Can I wipe your nose, buddy?”
He said, “Yes.”
So I wiped his nose. I said, “Do you want some apple juice?”
He said, “Yes.”
I gave him the apple juice and he plopped down on his belly without even drinking it. I closed the door and I can only assume by the silence that within moments he was fully asleep.
I wasn’t even really relieved. I was still stunned at the veracity of his anger. At the sudden fragile crumbling of my parental ego.
And his is only two.
What awaits me when he becomes 14 and means it?
You know how some parents have a little change jar for their kid’s college. I may just start one for my empty nesting rehab.
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Sorry, gang. I’m taking Thanksgiving week off. I had the boys for four days while the wife was in Denver. That with the recent drop date for the upcoming SPT Writers’ Room show has wiped me out. Going to rejuvenate.
