From the ages of 9 to 26, I addressed my friends’ parents by saying, “Hey, ummm.” and just hoped they responded. If they didn’t, I’d go back and eat more of their food without cleaning up after myself. After 26, I called them by their first names because once you have a full beard there’s no point in formalities.
My son, Arlo, who’s three, calls adults “lady” or “man” and that’s adorable because he’s three. For people he knows really well, he’ll sometimes address them by their child’s name and then daddy or mommy. Continue…
After feeding, comforting, dressing, teaching, entertaining, and loving our children, the remaining 30% of parenting is basically trying not to say the f-word in front of them. When they’re babies, it’s fine, blast away if you want. But as anyone knows, when they get older, children have a knack for repeating things, and when given the choice between “Oh my Golly” and “Holy Fu*king Sh*t”, they’ll always choose to yell the latter in front of the new neighbors.
I suspect the “The Terrible Twos” is a lie propagated by the pharmaceutical and booze industries to sell us their products. They set us up to believe that if we can just muster up enough patience to weather the second year of our child’s life, that the rest will be hugs and harmony. So as our kid’s third birthday approaches, we relax and look back with pride upon how we survived the previous two years without any lengthy hospital stays or restraining orders, and fantasize about our new future with a child who can ride in the car for more than 8 minutes and eat a meal without throwing ranch dressing. But as soon as that third birthday party is over, a new, more energetic, more resolute, and opinionated beast appears. The two-year old has shed his skin, and exposed the dirty little lie that the past year has only been practice for enduring a more formidable foe: The Xanax Threes.
Yesterday, I told my five-year old son to pretend like his little brother (3) is a puppy. I wasn’t trying to get them to role play, though that’s not a bad idea. “OK, Silas, you’re the owner and Arlo, you’re the dog. Now use your imagination and go play, but no choking!” I can imagine a child psychologist recommending something like that. “You should encourage your sons to engage in fun, make believe; play that forces them to work together.” That wasn’t my intention. Instead, I was simply attempting to help Silas understand why his brother goes “CooCoo Bananas” or “All Spazzy Mcgillicutty” as we call it.
We failed to make plans again on Saturday, so we loafed around the house trying to think of something to do while the boys ate crackers, moaned, argued and faked injuries. Out of desperation, every few hours one of us took a kid on a solo run to buy something we didn’t need. “I’m going insane. Can I just take Arlo to Target for a while and wheel him around? You can stay here with Silas and play imaginary games that only he understands. Continue…
