The terrible two. I do not get it.
I mean, what is really so terrible about the Terrible Twos?
I’m not really sure who coined the term, but it’s supposedly an excruciatingly difficult time for parents. So bad apparently, that they conjured the phrase in the first place. A time characterized by tantrums, mood swings and an affinity for the word ‘no’. All while your little person struggles to express himself and set limits.
It is a term that you begin to hear from practically the first day of your illustrious career as a parent. It’s an ominous warning that lingers menacingly in the background.
Enjoying an uneventful day in the absence of your baby’s deafening cries …
Or manage a weird horse poop, a full night of uninterrupted sleep …
Surely someone will be there the next day with a smile on their face and a twinkle in their eyes. Just before reminding you to enjoy it all now …
Because, in ways that only they are sure to fully understand, it’s bound to get more difficult.
Maybe Kaia didn’t get the memo. Or maybe we just missed something because back then, unlike now, both mom and dad did what we wanted, when we wanted.
Oh how I miss those two not so terrible, terrible.
No, don’t get me wrong. During that time frame, we had our fair share of Code 5 crash. Once on a flight to Bali and a few times during our year in South America.
The worst in an AirBnB in a fairly well gentrified neighborhood in Buenos Aires. The cries of our inconsolable cherub were so intensely stressful that I would be left with no choice but to take the girls’ side of the street. And it would be there, in the middle of the dimly lit street, the neighbors began to cast worried and then disdainful looks …
While not one, but two police cars, were backing up during a second, slower and more thorough investigation. Of what, in his eyes, there must be
It seemed like an obvious case of an attempted kidnapping of a child gone wrong.
But in hindsight, that tantrum and three-quarters of the rest during that fateful year were self-inflicted by Mom and Dad. We had underestimated the importance of keeping a schedule and our little boy, cheerful and eternally cheerful, was letting us know the ramifications.
Yes, the lesson was learned early. We had caused it ourselves.
However, the same cannot be said for the past two and a half years. A period not coincidentally synchronized with the beginning of Kaia’s formal education.
On the positive side, it is a period characterized by the introduction of the concepts of best friends, hobbies and budding personalities and on the other hand …
Introducing a thing called “attitude”. And with that, liberal bits of intrigue and manipulation mixed into the equation for
good measure.
It is an attitude generally directed towards Mr. Poli Malo (Sincerely) and for which I have found myself seven or eight years of being prepared.
Because somewhere after the Terrible Two years and the years leading up to the Teen Terror, there is apparently another nice catchphrase to describe the world of frustration that I, myself, and I currently find ourselves in.
Whatever it is or whatever name it may go by, my fingers are crossed, it’s just a phase. But if so, for how long? Because a boy cannot bear so many debates and endless reprimands from a seven-year-old.
And to make matters worse, Bec has been conveniently left out of this Dream Team’s starting lineup.
No, she sits on the sidelines, perpetually shaking her head. Stunned by the unfolding spectacle of husband and daughter arguing like an elderly married couple riddled with dementia.
According to Bec, this whole situation is due to the fact that Kaia and I share much more than the same eye color. SOMETIMES, BOTH of us are incredibly stubborn and impatient, or so the story goes.
Apparently the list of similarities is longer but to be honest it seems a bit far fetched to me. Besides, I don’t have time to listen to such nonsense.
Maybe if I could find a clever name or acronym. Something to make sense of this unexpected and nameless period of ongoing combustible events.
Something … anything, just to provide a ray of hope.
It would be nice, but, in typical Kaia style the girl, with what I suspect was a little help from Mrs. Good Cop: she thinks the solution is
much simpler.
“Dad,” she said, after another infuriating “debate” (probably with an objection to my claim that the sky is blue). “ You just have to remember that I am just a child. ”
Suddenly I realized that it was the quintessential case of the ‘pot calling kettle black’ as I had heard in a long, long time. But it was useless.
I quickly resigned myself to living to fight another day and left. My head shook in disbelief and my pride pounded again.
All the while longing for the Terrible Twos like never before.
