Jasper got the memo. You know, the Terrible Two’s memo? I always thought that was a joke, an urban legend designed to encourage new parents to cuddle their babies tighter/inspire parents to think sending their kids off to school wouldn’t be all that bad.
A handful? Sure! But really, what age isn’t a handful? Susannah hit the “terrible twos” at about 14 months, but hers was characterized by a marked desire to DOITMYSELF. (Which…is still going on, now that I think about it. Happy Terrible Fours, Susannah!) But as long as we handed various items over to her at various times, made her think that things were Totally Her Idea, and looked the other way when she climbed to the top of the fridge like a rhesus monkey, we skipped pretty nicely through that “terrible” year.
Nora never believed in the Terrible Twos. If anything, her toddlerhood was defined by a need to be alone with a book. Her “outbursts” were immediately followed by a request to go sit on the potty for an hour with the door closed. (“Uh, okay…I’ll just…enjoy this time alone, then?”)
Jasper, however, woke up on the morning of his second birthday and a metaphorical lightbulb went off over his head. And upon standing in his crib, he reached up to that lightbulb, thought to himself “I could totally smash this,” and proceeded to metaphorically do so.
Within a week of his second birthday, he flushed a GIGANTIC vitamin cap down the toilet, requiring a plumber to remove the toilet clear off of the floor and disassemble a goodly portion of the bathroom. (“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he exclaimed. “Thanks!” I exclaimed.)
He backbends in anger so far that his spine actually creaks and cracks. He kicks the wall to protest boots. Upon straightening and boot-wearing, he displays anger towards me that his back and foot hurt.
When he enters a room, he cases the joint. A remote? I can take that apart. A CD player? Hope you like six hours of shuffled play! I see you’ve placed that mug on the top shelf? I bet that was a mistake. No, no, I’ve got this one.
The look of serious determination on his face would be downright adorable if it weren’t accompanied by the shoving of a dining room chair clear across the room. (“I know you told me not to climb onto the counters, but I don’t think you realized that we both need something from this upper cabinet. I’ll go ahead and throw it behind the fridge for you.”)
And even though this kid has never seen even a single episode of Supermarket Sweep, he’d win. He’d win the whole season. Heck, he’d sweep random passersby into his cart and scoop them along for the frenzied ride. How do I know? He practices every morning, noon, and night by emptying tabletops, shelves, and errant cat food bowls of their contents. Wheeeeee, he seems to say as he sprints by, arms outstretched. It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid to clean anything during his waking hours for fear that he’ll see an untouched surface and remember. “Oh, hey, dishwasher! You know what you need? To be fully emptied and then set on an eight-hour delay. BOOM.”
…Because sometimes feelings are colors.
But let me tell you about this boy I’m crazy for.
He tugs on my shirt, stretches his arms up to the sky, and requests that we spin and dance to “Wampishaw.” (Why, what do you call the animated Robin Hood theme song “Oodelally”?) His infectious laugh makes me feel like a superhero egg scrambler/towel wrapper/lullaby singer. And his still-baby cheeks feel like heaven as I snuggle him before bed. (Seconds before his head thwacks upward into my chin and makes me briefly see stars.)
I realize how this sounds.
I understand that- were I referring to any other boy- you’d have cause for alarm. He wakes you up to yell about his feelings, you’d rightfully be able to accuse? He freaks out when you leave the room and immediately demands to know your whereabouts? He goes through your mail and trashes things he doesn’t think you need to see? In fits of pique, he breaks your possessions, takes off his clothes, and causes public scenes while occasionally peeing?
RED. FLAGS.
But you should totally see his dreamy eyelashes, you guys.
(Plus, he’s small enough that I can still create Jasper-proof zones involving pack n’ plays, and strategically placed chairs against doorknobs. At least for long enough to find the super glue.)
Days with this kid are hilarious, exhausting, terribly long, and fodder for some really, really good work. If I can remember it during those few (fewwwwww) moments where he’s not poking me in the ear canal. But when he falls asleep for the night and when I’ve begun to undo the carnage from the day…I miss him.
I miss his tiny voice and excited attempts to cook and genuine adoration for his sisters (and cats and passing trucks and…)
This is probably a biological necessity, coded in to ensure I don’t leave him at a nearby Taco Bell (like the one at the intersection of Irving Park and California, for example). I understand this. I respect this. I am wholeheartedly grateful for this.
And I wouldn’t trade even a second of it. Because he’s mine and this is mine and all of the tomorrows (and subsequent supergluing) are also mine and- again- I’m wholeheartedly grateful.
Wampishaw, anyone?
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