Yesterday, I came to the realization that toddlerhood might be my undoing. After a rather tumultuous morning involving the now-usual chases around the house as I wave a sweatshirt in front of the kid as if he were a bull I am hoping will charge right towards me (after which I hope that he will magicially fling his arms into the shirt rendering him ready to go to day care), and the attempt to manhandle him into a stroller, which is followed by the walk to day care, during which I am forced to field numerous requests to go the other way or go into the drycleaners or hand him water and then take away the water and then put on his sunglasses and then take off his sunglasses and then hand him his lunchbag and then pick it up when it falls of his lap, after all of this, as I was finally walking down the street, alone, towards work, I found myself cursing, aloud and loudly, at my Droid, which among numerous other annoyances had begun to refuse to hang up any calls. An out loud declaration of "You've got to be kidding me!" was followed by numerous expletives as I poked and shook my phone in a repeated huff of exasperation. I knew then that parenting a toddler was getting the best of me.
However, even though Stu and I have agreed that this part of parenthood "sucks," it is not to say it is without humor, even in the midst of sheer frustration. My two favorite examples of late are as follows:
Wheatbreadgate
The kid's latest whine-fest usually revolves around requesting numerous pieces of wheat bread between 6:00pm when he gets home from day care and 7:00pm when we have dinner. It's a constant and grating whine that is only quelled by giving the kid two small pieces of wheat bread at a time. For the past week or so, I have given in to this request with great fervor as it keeps that bewitching hour mildly calm and frankly, I don't really care if he eats several small pieces of wheat bread before dinner. People do it at restaurants all the time, right? Plus, we don't go through loaves of bread fast enough before they begin to mold, so I feel like the kid's new habit is really helping us avoid wasting money. Stu, however, felt that we should attempt to put a stop to this habit, which, if I really thought it through, was perhaps, for the best.
So the other night, Stu and I stood together. A united front against extraneous wheat bread consumption. I gave the kid his two small pieces of wheat bread and we said, "That's it until dinner. You can eat when it's dinner time." Of course, much whining began. And continued. And continued.
"Want a piece of bread. Want two ones. Want two of them. Want all the breads." Yes, it sounds cute. No, it's not. Stu and I remained strong. We mustered our courage and repeated our mantras: "That's it until dinner. You can eat when it's dinner time." The kid's face grew longer and longer and the whines grew whinier and whinier.
Then, in the midst of the dramatic whining, Stu opened the basement door to head downstairs to obtain one of his nightly beers (or at least feign the need to retrieve something that resided anywhere but wherever someone was repeatedly asking for bread). The minute the door closed behind him and the kid and I could hear his feet stepping down the stairs, the kid's eyes lightened and widened and his face brightened.
"Mommy!" he whispered with a quickened, quiet voice, "Mommy! Want some bread! Get the bread! Right now!"
Seriously?
"Mommy! Go get the bread! Go get the bread right now!"
I barely knew what to say or do. There was a part of me that wanted to just get the damned bread already and part of me that knew that if I broke the spousal united front, it would be bad for all involved. Me, the kid, Stu. There were all kinds of implications. And I too, like the kid, knew that I only had a matter of seconds in which to take action.
The kid pleaded again, "Mommy! Right now! You could get the bread right now!"
I took the high road just in time for Stu to return to the kitchen to hear me say, "No, buddy. We have to wait until dinner. No more bread for tonight."
"What's up?" Stu asked as he came back from the basement.
"Oh, nothing. Just asking for more bread." As if.
The Quesidilla Crisis
On a tired Sunday evening, Stu and I were having the "what's for dinner?" conversation. No one was up for cooking (read: Stu was not up for cooking and I never cook) so clearly, take out was the only option. Mexican from the joint across the street was decided upon, but there was much discussion as to whether the kid was also getting take out or we were going to make him something in-house. We agreed that some chicken strips was a perfectly suitable and less expensive option than the cheese quesidilla from the restaurant. Unfortunately, the memory of that decision fell out of my head shortly thereafter.
While Stu went to the restaurant to order and wait for the food (a task for which he always volunteers as it allows him approximately 20 minutes of alone-beer time on a somewhat regular basis), the kid and I hightailed it to the playground, where we had a lovely time. Our walk home, however, wasn't all that lovely as the kid melted down when I wouldn't allow him to run back towards the playground in order to watch an ambulance back into the fire station across the street, after which he prolonged his meltdown by not settling on which side of the street he wanted to walk on and had me carry him across said street numerous times before I told him to just pick a side and stick with it.
I believed that the most brilliant distraction from all of this melting down would be to discuss the dinner for which we were in the process of returning home.
"What's for dinner, Mommy?"
"A cheese quesidilla! Your favorite!"
The tears magically disappeared and we practically ran all the way home. We burst through the door expecting to see a great big, delicious cheese quesidilla on the table, only to find Daddy cutting up some chicken strips.
The tears. They came back. They came back in great numbers. Greater numbers than before. And in between each sob, was a woeful wail, "I DON'T WANT CHICKEN!!!! I WANT A QUESIDILLA!"
The guilt was unbearable. It was all my fault! I was the one who had forgotten about the chicken strips! And now my child! My poor, miserable child! My heart was breaking over his lack of a quesidilla!
I knelt down beside my weeping child and launched into a pathetic mea culpa.
"I'm so sorry my sweet pea! Mommy made a big mistake! I thought there was going to be a quesidilla, but there isn't one. I am so sorry! Mommy made a mistake!"
Somehow, through his wails, he managed to let us know that he would eat the chicken if--and only if--it was accompanied by some bread and cheese. Needless to say, I acquiesced and the remainder of the evening progressed rather uneventfully.
That is, until I plugged in the kid's monitor after putting him to bed, only to hear the following:
"Bert, Mommy made a big mistake today. I DID NOT have a quesidilla for dinner. I had chicken. That is NOT a quesidilla. That is CHICKEN. NOT a quesidilla. Mommy made a mistake."
Can't believe my kid ratted me out to a muppet.
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