Article Contributed on: 9/13/2006 12:43:24 PM
It's all a big lie.Yeah, I know; we've all been fed the line about the horrors that accompany the stage of toddlerhood that kicks off on a child's second birthday. If you're like me, the threat of the "Terrible Twos" followed only the initial few weeks of babyhood in terms of its ability to cause panic attacks in new fathers.
As I've discovered, however, it's all a big fat fib. The Twos are a paradise, folks; they're an oasis of blissful respite - a balm in the form of a pause before the long slog across the sea of incoherence and illogic that attends the year-plus to come, and if anything, they're
too winsome and pleasant, in that they fail miserably in preparing parents for the monstrosities that await.
Think I'm exaggerating? Well, that's your perogative, but don't say that I didn't warn you. You know the bit about Hell having no fury like a woman scorned? That's an edit of the actual quote. The original reads as follows: "The scornful fury of a three year-old woman? Hell."
What's so rough & tough about the Threes (the "Thuggish Threes", "Threatening Threes", or perhaps, just "The Year of ARRRRRRRGH!")? Where to begin?
Perhaps it's the incessant talking. The non-stop, perpetual din of chit-chat jibber-jabber that fills a parent's life with questions, commentary, and forceful exclamations on topics ranging from geopolitical happenings ("Why's that truck on fire? What's that about?"), to the day's clothing selections ("NO!"), to the provision of meals ("NO!"), to our preferred recreational activities, like a trip to the park ("I want to walk! What's that tree about?"). Each and every day now feels, to a certain extent, like an ongoing episode of
The Firing Line - with our little girl playing the role of William F. Buckley to our Ira Glasser, deftly eviscerating any and all arguments, suggestions, or demands that we might endeavor to bring to bear on the matter.
Then again, along these lines, it could be the constant combativeness. No matter the decisions we, her parents make, we are, without exception, stultifyingly mistaken, it would seem. At times, for example, we suggest that she might be wearing a particular shirt, or dining on a particular food or another. In these moments, she looks at us with such pity...such soul-crushingly pained sorrow for our obvious intellectual shortcomings, that one is tempted to feel sorry for oneself right along with her; right before we put her in time-out.
On the other hand, our teeth-gnashing might spring from the sudden deafness that attends moments of instruction.
The Girl's squeezing the Iams out of the cat/taking the Sharpie to the wall/pouring her juice onto the white carpet, you say? No problem. I'll simply inform her of the moral deficiency of her actions, and, through the forceful (yet benificent) application of my impenetrable logic, cause her to cease her behavior out of pure shame, right? Well, I can't see any way in which this course of action could possibly fail, can you? Ah, of course. I've failed to take into account that the single answer to
any question asked of a three year-old is"no". Well, really, not just "no". It's usually some variant of "NO!!", or, "I'm not going to", or the like. So devoted is
The Girl to such tactics, that she's willing to forgo even those things that she'd truly like to do/have - simply because we happened to suggest them first.
Her saving grace, of course, is the fact that - mixed into the episodes of pointless squabbling and protracted hand-to-hand combat - she provides more joy and
life to our home than we could otherwise hope to find without her. She's capable of moments of such surpassing tenderness and compassion, that it pretty much liquifies the heart instantaneously. She
exudes joy...like from every pore.
Besides, she just got her hair cut, and she's walking around, twirling, so that daddy can admire her. How the heck am I supposed to stand firm in the face of such a potent arsenal? Each day, in one way or another, I find that I'm forced to surrender to a little girl.
I feel like France.