Two-Year-Olds Just Don't Care

WARNING: The following post might not be suitable for those who have trouble reading about illness.  Pittsburgh Steelers fans are also advised against reading it, since they probably are feeling ill themselves, and reading a post about sickness might make them feel worse.

Getting sick ain't what it used to be.  Before Kyle was born, we would spend a sick day lying on the couch, snoozing, eating soup, and watching old game shows and TV movies (from Bollywood if we were lucky).  Our home would be quiet, naps would be long, and recovery would be fairly swift.  The caregiver (usually the spouse) didn't worry, and often the thermometer was never taken out.  Having a child changed all that. 

I've discovered that being sick with a child is not easy.  It's not easy when you're sick, and it's certainly not easy when the child's sick.  However, the scenarios could not be more different.  Tender loving care is a one-way street, especially with a two-year-old.

Our son became sick on Thursday.  The illness came with just a single warning at dinner time.  Kyle, who had been running around all day and acting like his usual self, barely touched his dinner before saying, "All done!"  I had been washing dishes, as our apartment, like many in New York, was last renovated before dishwashers were invented.  I thought the little guy was just being picky, so I told him to just stay put while I finished scrubbing, with hopes that he'd change his mind and start eating.  Then, out of nowhere, "BLLAAAAHHH!" 

Kyle's lunch was suddenly all over his dinner, and all over his shirt.  Compliments to the chef.  I immediately dropped what I was doing and ran to him.  I mopped up his stunned face, found him a new shirt, and cleaned the mess on the tray.  Everything else I hoped to do that evening was canceled, as I spent the rest of the time pampering the poor little guy and helping him through this illness.

Kyle did not give Jennifer and me the same kind of treatment one Sunday night in December, when we were both hit with food poisoning. Jennifer and I took turns watching over Kyle while the other one spent some "quality time" in the bathroom.  Kyle seemed oblivious to our struggle.  He ran up and down the apartment, laughing and yelling joyfully, as one of us sat on a kitchen chair, staring blankly at him while trying hard to stay composed until the bathroom became available again.

When Kyle became sick, we let him rest in his crib and gave him plenty books to read.  When we became sick, Kyle still demanded that we pick him up and carry him until our arms were sore.  When Kyle became sick, we rubbed his back as he lay on the couch moaning.  When we were sick, Kyle still wanted to wrestle with us, and he jumped head-first onto my fragile stomach.  When Kyle was sick, I quickly brought him to the bathroom, and stood beside him as he threw up into the toilet, telling him that it was all going to be okay.  When we were sick, I sat alone in the bathroom, exorcising the demons.  From there, I could hear a child's voice in our dining room, giggling and shouting "BLLAAAAHHH," mimicking the sounds he heard coming from me.  No sympathy at all.

In fact, Kyle's most tender moments come when he's sick.  He will sit still, and he will cuddle with us.  While we love the affection, it makes us feel worse because we know he's ill.  I would rather have the laughing, wrestling, screeching, stubbornness, and even the fake barfing.  Having gone through several of Kyle's illnesses, and all the worries and feelings of sadness that come with them, I realize that, no matter how bad I feel when I'm sick, it's much worse when the little guy's not well.  I'm glad he's better today.

Breaking and Entering

Our child loves knobs and doors.  If he's not opening and closing doors, he's turning knobs until they're so loose they almost fall out.  It's a fun thing to discover if you need to change your underwear in a hurry.  One of our friends has even banned him from his bedroom because Kyle had managed to unscrew the knobs of nearly all the drawers of the room's furniture during the five minutes he was in there.  Our kid has some talent with knobs, and hopefully someday he'll be about to mold it into a skill that's both useful and lucrative.  For now, it's just annoying, and potentially dangerous.  That's why we keep him out of hospital rooms.

When he's not turning knobs, he's pulling on them, trying to open and close drawers and doors.  This is one of his favorite activities.  When we rented a cottage in the Poconos last year, one of the first things he did was run into its kitchen and open up all the cabinets.  It was the most fun he had there all weekend.  He usually can't do that in our kitchen, since the cabinet doors are kept shut by a very sophisticated baby-proofing device called the "spring and release latch."

The latches worked well for the better part of a year.  Then last week, as I was watching him in the kitchen, he looked at me, smiled mischievously, and then pressed down on one of the latches.  The door opened.  Taa-daa!  Kyle suddenly had free access to all sorts of amazing things, from bleaches for the bathroom to paints to insecticide.  There are even more knobs to turn inside, fun ones that control our hot and cold water.  There's even a natural gas pipe to play with!  Kyle was very excited that he figured out a way to enter this chemical wonderland.  I almost dropped the glass I was holding.

One thing I have learned in my two-and-a-half years of parenting is to never make a big deal out of something your kid is doing if you truly want him to stop doing it.  So far it's working with his crib.  He probably could have climbed out of it months ago, but he has yet to try, and I think that's in part because we don't make a big deal whenever he throws his entire leg over the rail.  We just quietly put it back and distract him by giving him a blanket or telling him there's a monster under the crib.  Kyle soon forgets he was trying to climb out, and we get to put off buying a bed for another few weeks.  Had we shouted "no" or gave a big reaction, no doubt he would have tumbled out by now.  I decided to apply the same method to the cabinet doors last week.  I told him calmly that only his parents open those doors, and that he could get seriously hurt or blow up the apartment building if he snooped around in there.  The rest of the day, he simply pointed at the doors.  The method worked, but for how long?

Up until that point, I had fooled myself into thinking I had done a fine job baby-proofing our home.  I installed gates blocking doorways that lead to potentially unsafe locations (like the bathroom or alligator pit), we moved scissors and other dangerous items out of Kyle's reach, and we no longer keep our fragile glassware in an old toy box.  I spent a good hour on a Saturday afternoon putting those latches in, but apparently that wasn't enough.  When Jennifer posted on Facebook that Kyle figured out the latches, one of our friends wrote that Kyle is "super smart."  I will try to look at it that way, assuming that Kyle will someday get a full-tuition scholarship to some prestigious university because at an early age he learned how to open the cabinets.  Still, my gut tells me he's just doing this because he thinks it's funny and he enjoys all the attention he gets, while at the same time annoying dear old dad.  It's a behavior similar to that of a rodeo clown.  So I don't know what to think.  My cousins have a magnetic lock system that supposedly makes your kitchen as secure as Fort Knox.  We might look into that.  Meanwhile, the little guy is also trying to figure out a way to put enough weight on the pedals of our gates to get them open.  Heaven help us all if he manages to do that.

Independent Stinker

I would not say that my child has an independent streak.  To say that would suggest that there are times during the day when he actually follows my requests without question.  No, Kyle is a true revolutionary soldier, ready to fight for freedom from tyranny (Daddy) at all times, and at all costs.  The problem is, he strategizes like a two-year-old.  Half the time you don't know what he wants, and he doesn't know either.

The other night Kyle ran around the apartment with unzippered, half-open jeans.  I had put them on myself, which was a big mistake.  Kyle wanted to dress himself, after wanting to change his own diaper.  Oh, my life would be so much easier if he could actually change his diaper, but, after seeing his attempts, I doubt any diaper changed by my son would be effective, unless his face suddenly leaked.  So, I fought him with the diaper change, and then I fought him with the jeans.  Kyle wanted to put them on himself, but he wanted to wear them half-backwards and half upside-down at the same time, which is scientifically impossible.  No matter how much I reasoned with him, Kyle refused to accept the laws of physics and clothing design, and he kicked and screamed when I took over and worked to put the pants on the right way.  He then ran across the room and stared at me, his face turning purple and crying as if I just stabbed his legs.  That's why I didn't bother with the zipper.


(Above: Your dinner guest for this evening)

This is what life has become in the Age of the Tantrum.  Sure, Kyle has put up fights before, but over the past month he has become as unstable as one-hundred-year-old dynamite, while becoming even more determined to do things himself.  Don't open that door for him.  Don't get the stool to help him wash his hands.  Don't make that sandwich yourself.  Don't buckle him into his high chair.  Don't drive that car.  Should you dare try to do anything HE wanted to do - KABOOM!   WAAAAAH!  Purple face.  And that's when it becomes nutty: the door he wanted open he now wants closed.  The stool he wanted to get himself he doesn't even touch.  He doesn't want a sandwich anymore.  He refuses to release the parking brake.  The kid flip-flops more than a politician.  You just can't win. 

So, our home has become a lot more noisy.  Our landlady used to rave about how well-behaved our little guy was, always cheerfully going up and down the stairs with his dad, saying "hi" to passers-by politely, and with a big smile.  I can't imagine her feeling quite that way now, especially after our entrance on Saturday, when we opened the front door with a screaming Kyle at my chest, legs kicking as I carried him all the way up the stairs.  Prior to that, he had been screaming down the block and at our front gate, which he apparently wanted open and closed at the same time.  What triggered this?  Kyle did not want ME to remove him from the car seat.  He wanted his mommy.  His pregnant mommy.  He wanted her to squeeze into the thin space between the car and a snowbank at the edge of the road, twist herself around so that she could get into the back seat, unbuckle him, and then, with her feet still unstable, drag his limp body out of the car.  I was not going to let that happen, so boom went the dynamite.

Going out is not easy, either.  Just putting on socks and boots took about a half-hour today because Kyle wanted to do them himself and wouldn't let me come close to his feet.  The problem was, he didn't know how, and he wouldn't let me teach him.  I had to threaten to leave without him before he gave up and let me put them on.  Just be glad nobody's counting on the two of us to put out a fire or stop a burglary.

Okay, okay... I realize that some of my recent posts aren't too flattering of two-year-olds.  You might even think it's dreadful to be a parent of one.  It's not, even if this stage of parenting is exhausting.  There are still plenty of wonderful times to offset the bad ones, and moments of tranquility (nap time).  And many times it's fascinating to observe.  I'm amazed at just how much Kyle wants to do on his own, and how much he wants to be in control.  He's constantly telling me where to sit and what to read (at least he's saying "please," a small victory for me).  He still has much to learn, but he acts like he already knows it all.  Some adults act like this, too, and now I think they acquired these behaviors at age two and never grew up. 

Kyle will also say "no" to things simply because I suggested them.  He wants everything on his terms, not mine.  But there's usually a way to get him to comply without a fight.  When a fight does happen, though, Daddy almost always wins.  That's because Daddy has the ability to pick Kyle up, put him in his crib, and shut him in his room... whenever he wants to.  I think Kyle realizes that, too, and, after a while, he tends to fall in line.  There will be no revolution today.

Factor of Two

For the past month, Jennifer and I have been spreading some news which many of you already know: we are expecting a second child.  The little one is due in June, a month which will be upon us shortly.  It's practically the day after tomorrow, the way time has been flying lately.  Am I ready?  Probably not.  Am I stressed out because of that?  Nope.  At least, not yet.

You see, I am under the delusion that I've been through this before.  Sonograms and ultrasounds are no longer alien to me.  I know what the maternity ward of the hospital looks like, and I have changed enough diapers to own a major stake in the local landfill.  I've made many last-minute trips to the laundromat, and even had to clean the nursery's curtains after one unfortunate diaper change.  I have learned that "a good night's sleep" is subjective, and I have looked forward to sleeping on vacation more than the vacation itself.  The spit-ups, the tantrums, the destruction of property, the screams: been there, done that.  It's easy for me to feel confident and at ease with having a second child, until I start to really think about it, and I ask myself, Do I really have the energy to go through that again?  I dunno... maybe?  I'm starting to think that having another child is like completing a video game level on the Atari 2600: the next level might look exactly the same as the previous one, but by now you're weary, the opponents are tougher, and there's a big insect-like monster that comes out of nowhere and eats you up. 

So I guess the "big insect-like monster" in this analogy would be my son Kyle.  Hmmmm... I suppose that's not the most flattering description a father could give his first-born child.  Maybe I'll take back the "insect-like" part (though I swear sometimes he has the ability to fly into my gut, especially when I am sitting on the couch with a splitting headache), but the word "monster" isn't much of an exaggeration.  Just look at what he can do to our living room in about a minute's time:

See that smug expression on his face?  He knows what he's doing.  He knows he's creating a big mess.  In fact, he often says "big mess" when he's doing it.  Keep in mind, this picture was taken in the early afternoon.  By evening, the room is much worse, almost unrecognizable, often with half the bookcase emptied on top of all those Seinfeld DVDs, and with Cheerios and puffs scattered everywhere.  Kyle knows no mercy.  Each night after the little guy goes to bed, in an attempt to keep my sanity, I clean this mess up (with the help of Jennifer if she's back from work) so that I could sit back and watch TV without feeling like I'm inside a kid's playpen.  Sometimes cleaning the mess takes up to 45 minutes.  And this is just with one kid.  Imagine what will happen with two.

Then, of course, there are all the things I've described in previous posts.  Kyle is a demanding kid who has yet to learn the art of sympathy.  If I were to accidentally cut my finger off before breakfast, Kyle would still be screaming for waffles as I gush blood all over the kitchen.  I only wonder how he'll act once we can't give him our full attention.  Fortunately, we won't be dealing with two two-year-olds at once, since all the pregnancy books I've read don't mention any child ever being born that old.  I tip my hat to my cousins and anyone else who had twins, and then had a baby when those twins were around Kyle's age.  From what I understand, the military frequently visits homes like theirs to help soldiers prepare for the stresses of battle.

Granted, Kyle will have just turned three by the time our second child is born, so maybe he'll behave differently.  I'm not too optimistic, though, considering what I've heard from parents of three-year-olds.  From what I understand, having two kids will be fantastic later, perhaps when they're ages 7 and 4.  That's just four years from now.  Just one presidential term.  Four years with at least one kid being a maniac.  Four long, crazy, mind-numbing years.  Am I stressed out because of that?  Nope.  Not at all.  Really.

Wide World of Wreaths

Occasionally I find myself talking to someone about Disney World, mostly in the context of "When do you think you'll be taking your little guy there?"  I always say, if we do our mind-control/parenting right, Kyle won't realize that Disney World is an actual place, and not a fantasy conjured up by his friends, until he's at least seventeen years old.  Besides, who needs Disney World when your child is just as happy going to the Wide World of Wreaths, a free adventure located at the bottom floor of our building.

Each year at Christmastime, our landlady has put a wreath on the gate near the front door, and another one next to her apartment, which is behind the stairwell on the first floor.  Kyle saw them plenty during his first two Christmases, but he didn't appreciate them, as he was too busy eating his fingers.  But this time, he immediately noticed them.  From the moment they went up shortly after Thanksgiving, and he's been infatuated.  In early December, our landlady put up even more wreaths, upping the total number wreaths on the first floor to six, not including the three wreaths she has in her windows facing the street in front of our building.  We thought she was doing this because she heard how excited Kyle was about the wreaths, but when I mentioned that to her, she rambled on and on about how she never hears anything outside her door because her TV is usually on and the people living in the apartment above her (whom she complains about often) apparently have adopted a couple dozen elephants that stomp the floor while playing musical instruments loudly and out-of-tune, making it impossible for her to hear Kyle.  She said she put up the extra wreaths just because she found them somewhere, either at a discount store or on somebody else's door.  Well, this supports my long-held theory that my landlady is simply crazy... about wreaths.  In addition to all those wreaths she put up, there was the wreath on our door and the wreath on the door to the second-floor apartment, so throughout the Christmas season Kyle was in a wreath paradise.

And, wow, did he go nutty over those wreaths.  Several times a day - I kid you not - the little guy would run up to me or Jennifer and say, "Go downstaihs and wook at weafs!"  He'd then extend his arms out for one of us to pick him up and head downstairs just to look at the decorations.  Once downstairs, Kyle would point to each one and say "weaf right dere" or "weaf ovah dere," in case we didn't know where they were (yes, my son has a slight Boston accent.  He makes me proud).  He'd point out which one is shiny and which one has red bows.  He'd also tell me about the other Christmas decorations, such as the couple of carollers by the landlady's door, a small festive sled hung from a gate door, and the posted rules and regulations regarding trash and recycling pickup.  After pointing everything out about a half-dozen times, Kyle would then say "Goodbye weafs!" and we'd go upstairs, where he would immediately talk about how much fun he had looking at the wreaths, as if he just came back from riding a roller coaster or the merry-go-round.

Kyle also enjoys telling me where the wreaths are whenever we go outside.  From the stroller, he will point out even the smallest of wreaths he spies on people's homes.  Then when Christmas hit our church, the grounds crew made the mistake of putting wreaths all over the place.  Many times this past month, as parishioners sat quietly to listen to a message of peace, joy, and harmony, as revealed through the birth of Jesus, Kyle was pointing around the church and shouting, "WEAF OVAH DERE!  WEAF OVAH DERE!"

But now the Christmas season is over, and the wreaths are all gone, with the final ones disappearing today.  For the past week or so, I had wrestled with how to prepare Kyle for this moment.  At least he had a little time to adjust.  The people on the second floor removed their wreath shortly after Christmas, and we took ours down on Sunday.  Our landlady was the last holdout, and I kept wondering what would happen when Kyle asks to go downstairs to look at wreaths, and nothing's there.  What would I say to him then?  Will saying that our landlady's putting them in storage suffice?  Or do I need to make something up?  Maybe I should tell him that the wreaths accompanied our beloved Christmas tree, and were taken from our street curb by angels who magically whisked them to a faraway land, where they were guided softly towards a happier, heavenly place called Mulchland, through a loud machine with sharp knives that ripped them to shreds before spitting them out.  Right now, Kyle seems to have accepted the truth that the wreaths went into storage, so I think I will stick with that story.

Kyle did not react much today when he first noticed that the Wide World of Wreaths had vacated the building.  Once we reached the bottom of the stairs, he craned his neck around me to look for the wreath that had been next to our landlady's door.  When he noticed it was gone, he silently looked in the spots where the other wreaths had been.  Then, having assessed the situation, Kyle muttered just one word: "outside."  So, we went out.  And that was that.

Personally, I am sad to see the wreaths go, and not just because Christmas season is over.  No, I certainly had enough Christmas cheer this time around (see previous post).  What I will miss is the field trip downstairs on a particularly cold day, when I didn't feel like bundling up or fighting to get Kyle bundled up.  Even though we didn't leave the building, at least we left the apartment, and that always helped with my sanity.  But now there is nothing downstairs for Kyle to be excited about, unless he takes notice of the first floor's abundance of scuff marks or the big orange "NO SMOKING" sign by the front door.  Otherwise, it's going to be another long winter.