One of my co-workers was regaling me with tales of the most recent attempts by her almost 3-year-old son to defy all logic and in fact recreate how his world works (à la Harold and the Purple Crayon only her child used a black sharpie with the dishwasher as his canvas). At any rate, it got me thinking about the many, ma-a-a-any times some of my children's own actions seemed to defy all manner of reason and went straight to baffling, inexplicable irrationality with a side of "dear-god-where-was-the-Magic Eraser-when-I-needed-it for good measure.
I believe we're all so very lucky I never lost touch with my sense of humor.
Anyone who's ever met Chrissy is immediately awestruck by her calm demeanor and enthusiastic love of the arts. She sketches, she paints, she dabbles in colored pencil techniques and even photography. In short, she's an extremely well-rounded teenager with absolutely no hint of the disobedient apathy many have grown to expect from Generation Y. I nod and seemingly smile at my good fortune. But what I'm really smiling at are all the memories! This beautiful, now docile bibliophile was once a beautiful head-banging, temper-tantrum-throwing, fall.down.on.the.floor.and.writhe.in.sweaty.protest type of child.
I'm so not making this up. I swear. In fact, here are a few examples for your edification:
Her Terrible Twos started when she was a year old and promptly ended when she turned Three. I think the term itself more accurately refers to the number of years parents spend biting their nails with worry over which mental facility is better suited for either them or their children than it does the age of the child. There were more than a few moments when her tantrums involved tears on both our parts. Oh but I loved her! I simply loved it even more the day she awoke from her time of Being Two with a smile for the dawning of Being Three and beyond. I have a particular fondness for the "and beyond" part.
For some reason one of the more dominant visual memories I have of her is one in which she would toddle around wearing one of my shirts. She did this often but not nearly as often as she toddled around wearing her own clothes. So the image my mind has chosen to capture seems especially unique and all the more special for it's rarity. She would basically follow me throughout our apartment using her toddler-ways to get a variety of things she seemed to wake up each morning in need of. Some days she chose simple things like a sippy cup of whole (not half) milk or a tape of Barney and then her mandatory morning consumption of nourishment. Other times it was vastly more complicated than that. In fact, at times it was as tenuous and problematic as establishing life on Mars or solving that pesky problem of global warming. To say she could be "difficult" is like saying the surface of the Sun is "a little warm". Understate much?
On those insatiable days of hers, it wasn't unheard of to have the day end with my ears ringing and the front of her shirt-cozy glazed with a thick coating of boo-hoo boogers. She looked like she'd been slimed Ghostbusters style. She was a cutie, don't get me wrong. It's just that she was a cutie with royal demands. And Her Highness (Heinous? LOL) did not appreciate being told "no" or having a delay of any sort between request and receipt. God love her.
I will admit, I rather enjoy telling her about those two tortuous years. And sometimes I play it up a little for sympathy. But for the most part we laugh together about it. Like the time she used markers to color a perfect shadowy likeness of our lay-z-boy onto the wall of our rented apartment. Or the time I thought she was napping when she was in fact quietly sitting on the floor of her closet systematically emptying every last jumbo container of baby powder onto (and into) our disgusting shag carpeting. Or the time I walked away from her newest twist to tantrum-throwing (consisting primarily of butting her head against hard surfaces with much justified anger) only to come rushing back at the sound of her pained howling to find her standing, virtually stunned; her nose bloodied (the table, IT HURT ME, I'm so suing you!). Or better yet, the time the Presbyterian minister from our hometown church dropped by to visit. As we were chatting amiably, in she walks wearing her shirt-cozy and plastered from head to toe in every Always Maxi-pad With Wings I had left in the box while sucking on the empty plastic tubing of a newly opened tampon like it was a whistle.
Okay so maybe not all of us are lucky I've kept in touch with my sense of humor. Paybacks!
*giggle*
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