The Dining

Anyone who has spent any time around two year olds will tell you that two year olds are a special type of hell. Oh, they're adorable, certainly.  There are sweet, whimsical moments like this...

And this...

And even, occasionally, this.

But there are also moments like this...

And this...

And, well, let's face it, this is the natural state of a toddler.

I once read a short story that described kittens as having "exactly two neurons in [their] cute, fluffy little heads.  One neuron to keep the body moving at warp speed, and one neuron to pick out the situation guaranteed to cause the most trouble." (Lackey "SKitty" 1989)  Replace "kittens" with "small children between 2 and 3 years old" and you have found the theme for these super-fun years. 

Of course, knowing this is valuable, but of little practical help, as there is no way you can redirect those neurons; you simply have to wait for more to appear, and pray that the neuron in charge of listening shows up soon.  Accept that, despite your best intentions, you will learn the hard way that there is no such thing as a spill-proof sippy cup.  There will be times when you have half a gallon of vegetable oil on the floor, blocks wedged in the U-bend of the toilet, and permanent marker on the wall as well as the (perpetually naked) child and the cat.  Graham crackers will be crushed to powder and sprinkled over the couch for no good reason.  Diapers will need to be creatively applied (often with duct tape).  Eggs will be lovingly smashed into the flour, and you will be grateful that they weren't squirreled away in the toy room.  There will be kicking, screaming meltdowns because the wrong person dared unbuckle the child from the car seat, and casual dumping of toys because of the delightful sounds they make as they scatter across every square inch of the floor.*

The fun spikes to another level when you take the little beast out to eat.  Now, I'm not one of those people who endorse kid-free restaurants; businesses should operate however they see fit, but I think that if you're going to teach a kid how to behave in public, you actually have to take them in public.  Sometimes, though, I second guess my convictions.

A few weeks ago, Rick got a wild hair and suggested we go out to breakfast.  I'm generally too cheap to pay someone else to make pancakes, but I was feeling exceptionally lazy, so we bundled all six kids into Bertha and headed out for a hole-in-the-wall café Rick had run across a few months before.  We crowded into the tiny building and were shown immediately to the one booth with enough space for our horde.

Echo's moment had come.

Taking advantage of her father's and my preoccupation with ordering sustenance, she promptly started sucking on sugar packets until the paper dissolved and she could get her fix.  She allowed us to extract the soggy paper from the roof of her mouth and to be briefly redirected to the coloring sheet, lulling us into a false sense of security by scribbling and eating crayons.  She accepted her Styrofoam "child's water" with angelic grace and a lisped "dank yoo" that won the heart of our waitress.

Then, still beaming, she started squeezing the cup in her little claws.

"Don't do it," I warned when I heard the squeaky cracking of Styrofoam under pressure.  She just raised an eyebrow.  She squeezed again slowly, tauntingly.  Squuueeeeeak....I dived for the cup, knowing I'd be too late.  Using her powers of super speed, she punched her thumbs through the wafer-thin Styrofoam.  Water gushed over the table.

"All right, you're done with your water," I announced, popping her cup into an empty coffee mug on the opposite side of the table.  Echo looked on for a minute as we swabbed the table with napkins, then, bored, reached for one of her sisters' cups. 

"Nope," I said when I heard the squeal of protest. "That's not yours."

Echo glared at me, then reached for another cup, this one across the table.  I plunked her back in her seat.  She tried again. Again, I retrieved her.  As she tried to think a way around me, she realized her pants had been doused in the earlier deluge.  She started whining about being cold and wet and wanting to go home.  We had already ordered, so I looked around for something to distract her. We don't allow electronics at the table (mostly because there aren't enough to go around--I'm cheap, remember?) so I looked around for something to interest her.  Her coloring page had been soaked by water, so that was a no-go.  Glass salt and pepper shakers, ketchup with a flimsy lid, sugar and carcinogenic but calorie-free sweeteners in super thin paper packets...nope, nope, nope.  Ah, the creamers, those little plastic cups with the "easy peel-off lids" that basically require surgery to open. Perfect.  I scooped up a handful and showed her how to build a tower.

Knocking down the tower was more interesting than building it, but she seemed absorbed.  I took the opportunity to attempt an adult conversation.  Then came the warning cry of my eldest.

"Mo-o-o-o-om...."

I looked over at Echo. She had managed to pry the lid off a creamer and was holding it at eye level.  Whether she was planning to throw it back like a shot or drizzle it over the table like a milky Pollack painting, we'll never know--I snaked it away from her just in time. 

She considered me for a moment.  Then:

"Wadder?"

"You spilled yours, remember?"

"Dirsty.  Wadder."

"No, you need to wait."

Then she played her trump card. "Peeeeeease, Mama?"  *Blink blink blink*  Louder: "Mama, so dirsty."

The folks in the booth next to us were watching, waiting to see if I'd deny life-giving water to the sweet little girl who asked so nicely.

"Fine," I said through gritted teeth, holding the cup. She wrapped her little hands around it.  I held the cup steady and stared directly into her eyes.  "Don't squeeze it."

She took a long pull on the straw, paused, made eye contact with me, and then--as I had known she would--deliberately crushed her cup, sending water spilling over my hand and flooding my lap.

By this point, Rick had realized he would be down a kid by the time everyone was done with their pancakes if he didn't step in, so he took Echo over by him.  They talked and played and she named all of her ocean animals for him. My lap slowly dried.  Things seemed to be going well.

Then I noticed that her systematically assessing the cutlery.  She's a stabby sort of kid, but she needs to learn how to use things herself, so I decided to wait and watch instead of grabbing the silverware out of self preservation.  She was meticulous. Picked up the spoon, run her finger over the rim, pinch the sides, put it down. Picked up the butter knife, touch the tip, measure the sides, put it down, almost disappointed.  Picked up the fork, felt the tines, weighed it carefully in her palm...and stabbed directly, intentionally, at the open creamer I'd taken from her earlier.

By some miracle I managed to snatch the creamer without spilling it or getting forked in the hand.  Rick took away the silverware with only minimal protest.  I hissed at the girls to put their food down their necks.  Echo amused herself by finger-painting on the table with the syrup and demanding bites of my food, squawking like a baby bird whenever she needed another mouthful.  We paid the bill and ran for the van.

Could that have been worse?  Yeah. Was it really that bad?  Probably not, but I was not in a hurry to take her out again.  Over the years I have had my share of "What the hell, WHY?" moments.  The endless ingenuity of kids to make messes and get into trouble I could never think to prep for amazes me.  Somehow, even when I'm fuming as I mop up oil, or untangle a brush that's been lovingly ratted into a sister's hair, or chasing down a giggling toddler with a hammer in one hand and my phone in the other, I can't help but love the freaking kid in question.  It's hard to stay angry when you've punished them and all they want in the depths of their misery is a hug from you.  There's also something admirable about the sheer chutzpah they have about their misdeeds.

I mean, look at that face.  Zero damns given.  Fine, kid.  You can stay.  We'll get through this together somehow, probably with a lot of chocolate.  For me.




*All of the above scenarios are based in real life experiences.  You have been warned.

(Bren wants it noted that she named this post)