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Boy?
Pay now. Girl? Pay later.
(Note:
these events are have been slightly embellished for journalistic purposes.
We are pretty good parents, really we are.)
When our daughter, Hannah, was born she wasn't angelic. She put angels
to shame. They would whisper and natter amongst themselves in a hissy-fit
of cherubic avarice. "Why is she cuter than we are?" They'd complain
to their immediate supervisor. "It's just not fair!"
It's somehow reassuring to know that things aren't fair even in heaven.
Hannah was indeed a beautiful baby. She was given front-row-center amongst
the newborns when put on display in the nursery. The proud grandparents
of the other babies would find their gaze inexorably drawn back to her.
The effect was almost hypnotic. "Why she's such a beautiful baby!"
Hannah breezed through most of her babyhood beautifully and blossomed
into a radiant toddler. We enrolled her in Toddle Time, an hour-long
session where in-the-know two year olds gathered three days a week,
There Hannah could interact with her fellow generation. The other beautiful
little girls would gather around her. We parents would look on with
a slight mist in our eyes, in wonderment at the everyday miracle of
happy children playing.
Then a howl. A crash, a thud. More howling. It sounded like wild ferrets
had been set loose in the room. A prison riot in miniature was being
played out. Where brute force and animal instincts overwhelmed all other
emotions. It was all that and more.
The boys were here.
A rolling boil of snotty, scrapped and scuffed two and three year olds.
They were the Visigoths of Toddle Time, cutting a swath of destruction
and mayhem through the room.
Oh their Mommas were trying to raise 'em right. But you could sense
the months of struggle to keep these tiny manlings under control had
taken their toll. One mom stood next to me while she tried to dissuade
little Travis or Tucker from prying the child guard off the outlet with
a plastic screwdriver. Finally he wriggles free, falls to the ground
and heads straight back to the object of his desire and possible electrocution.
Hannah stands quietly next to me. Mom just shakes her head slowly. "He
is such a little boy."
"Uh huh." I feigned agreement. Internally my eyes rolled. Riiiiiiiiiiight.
Blame it on gender. What about enlightened parenting? Healthy role-playing?
Positive behavior re-enforcement? Moderating sugar intake? How could
anyone blame this outbreak of Tasmanian Toddler Devil Syndrome just
on being a boy?
But now I am older and wiser. Our son Liam is rapidly approaching his
second birthday. He's been blessed with the same angelic good looks
as Hannah, but that's where the two part ways.
Why? Because he is such a little boy.
My wife, Jennifer, claims she knew things were different even when Liam
was still womb-bound. We had no idea the sex of our second child, but
she could tell these kicks had considerably more energy and enthusiasm
behind them than Hannah's.
Even when Liam made his grand appearance, the primary comment was not
on his appearance but on his strength. He liked to kick almost as much
as he liked to cry. Liam was placed in the back row, far left. We pointed
him out with pride. The most common comment? "Wow, he sure likes to
kick."
But he didn't like to sleep. He regarded his crib not as a bed but as
a holding cell. Food was an annoyance, an indulgence meant for lesser
beings. Liam lived for action, freedom and mayhem. It was thus in the
fullness of time, and semi-sleepless nights, weeks, and months that
Liam blossomed into full toddler hood.
Hannah was now an urbane and sophisticated kindergartner at Our Lady
of Perpetual Pink-eye. She regards Liam with a sisterly affection tinged
with anxiety. A typical scenario: every thing in Liam's hand becomes
a hammer. And everything (and everybody) else is a nail.
We all had to admit it: Liam was a little on the spirited side. And
we wondered why. Maybe it was just because he's a boy. Then one day,
as I tried to explain to Liam why it wasn't such a great idea to put
the cat in the dishwasher, I had a revelation.
Liam wasn't just a boy. He was my boy.
I was the tree and Liam the apple. I reflected on my own childhood.
My brother and I had been raised on twelve acres of Missouri heartland
amid the rolling and unincorporated foothills of the Ozarks. And it
never occurred to me before, but when the Shaw family gathered around
the 'ol family scrapbook, every photo of Patrick and myself as toddlers
displayed a few common themes:
We would be running, and (during the temperate months) we would be naked.
Somehow I thought this was just my parent's own free-range technique
of parenting, until my mother regaled Jennifer with tales of our feral
tendencies during the early days of our courtship. "We couldn't keep
clothes on them. Those two would run around naked. If an airplane flew
over, they'd just drop to the ground. Patrick and Michael didn't talk
until they were four; they just had this gibberish language between
them. Then there was that time that Michael pooped in a potted pepper.
And I'll never forget the time he hit Patrick in the head with a brick…"etc.
etc. etc.
So, compared to me, Liam's a model citizen!
Plus, he's not only working through a big dose of daddy's genetics He
also must come to grips with the same issue that all men struggle with
throughout life:
There will always be something you really want that you can't have.
The cat's tail, for instance.
So there are a few things a Dad can do to make life a little easier
if you have a Toddler Visigoth in the house. Don't make mommy always
play Sipowitz. Sometimes you have to be the heavy.
I learned this lesson like most dads: through grim experience. I had
always regarded Liam's exploits with a certain amount of paternal pride.
I'd stride through the door, the Lord and Master returning to his manor,
to the bosom of my loving family.
Instead, the living room looked like a scene from COPS.
"Honey, why is there a chalk outline on the living room floor?"
Jennifer walked and handed me our writhing and drooling son. The usual
greeting of "How was your day dear?" was replaced by the command: "You
take him."
A live carp was easier to hold. (And yes I have held a live carp.) I
put him down. He bolted toward the kitchen. Jennifer turned and said,
"You watch him."
It was time for The Adventures of Liam The Monkey Boy! I'd come home
everyday to a new episode. Liam had hidden the remote control, put all
the spices in the dishwasher, removed the back storm door, hot wired
the mini van, made twelve overseas phone calls, ordered the complete
Oxford Dictionary over the internet and removed the cat's spleen. And
worse of all: HE WOULDN'T TAKE HIS NAP.
By now I too, had taken refuge in that old chestnut…he was just being
a boy. So Liam wants to go play in kitchen? I'll make it a fun and interactive
experience. We'll make dinner together. "Sure honey, I'll take him.
You go relax. Liam and I will fix dinner. Won't we big feller?"
Father and son stride into the kitchen, Iron Chef and his Little Wok!
I hand Liam a rubber spatula and a plastic bowl. "Now remember Liam,
stiff peaks!"
I pour Jennifer a glass of merlot and take it upstairs. She's watching
the Home and Valium channel, lost in a reverie of window treatment glasses.
She takes the glass with a shaky hand.
"Where's Liam?"
"He's in the kitchen. I'm going back down."
She turned ashen. Eyes wide. "You. Can't. Leave. Him. Alone."
"Ah, c'mon honey. What can he do in two minutes? I'm going right down.
You just relax."
I went back to the kitchen. "OK Liam let's get to work!" The bowl and
the spatula lay on the floor.
"Liam?" I turned and saw him sitting next to the pantry cabinet. He
was holding a bottle that had previously contained balsamic vinegar
that now grew around him in an inky pool.
"Liam! How did you get that cap off?" He regarded me with a sublime
indifference. "LIAM! WHERE IS THE CAP?"
With a single "patooie" the metal cap shot from his mouth and rattle
on the floor. (Cooking hint: balsamic squeezed from fleece jumpers adds
a real zest to your salads!)
Liam! Where is the cat?"
From the dishwasher came a muffled, plaintive mew…
Liam got a thirty second time out in crib. Oh, he screamed all right.
But sometimes even Daddies can dole out the tough love.
Liam is getting better. How? By getting older. We were holding high
hopes he will make a complete recovery from toddleritis and bloom into
splendid boyhood. As for Hannah, she had a new friend from Kindergarten
playing at the house the other day. I asked them what they were doing.
She told me: "We're pretending we have boyfriends and we're breaking
up with them."
Pay later: the first installment.
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