My children, now fourteen and twelve, were three at some
point, which means surely I had a taste of hell, but like any victim of PTSD, I
have blocked out the majority of the trauma. I prefer to remember the positive
things, like the cute clothes they used to wear and how adorable their speech
impediments were.
Little did I know it at the time, my girls were easy. They
mostly followed the rules. They didn’t get in trouble at school. They weren’t
bundles of energy. Mostly, they dressed up and colored and played with toys and
puzzles, quietly. If they were irritable, they would be soothed by a Disney
movie, or at the worst, the Wiggles. Remember them? God, I’m dating myself.
My friends with the three year olds don’t have it so lucky.
Their boys are much more physical than my girls ever were. For example, EL’s
little boy likes to express himself with words for adults, but with his peers,
he prefers biting. Chomping down on his classmates has become the go-to way for
him to show his displeasure, shock, surprise, or anger, depending on the
situation. Every day EL waits for the school to tell her not to bring him back
anymore. So far, they are convincing her that it’s all good, mostly
age-appropriate, and something he will hopefully outgrow soon. He’s only broken
skin a couple of times, so he shouldn’t have to be put down, but he might need
a muzzle.
My other friend with a three year old son, MJS, has a
different set of issues. Her child has decided to accept the challenge that
preschool is offering his immune system. This kid has been sick at least once a
month since August of last year, and sometimes violently. There is not much
worse than a little kid puking. They don’t quite understand what’s going on
yet, not enough to run to the bathroom and hang their heads over the toilet. I
can only imagine what that Restoration Hardware sofa that she had to have looks
like these days. I know someone who bought her furniture at Big Lots specifically because she knew it would be ruined in less than two years. We refer to it as disposable furniture.
Yesterday, MJS’s son refused to get dressed for school. Adamantly refused. She was late for work and basically didn’t have time for that shit. She strapped him in the car seat, buck naked, his clothing in the front seat next to her. She talked to me while on the way to his day care. I could hear him screeching like a baby dinosaur in the background. Later, she told me that he had crumbs from the car seat stuck to his bare ass. Also, she forgot his sneakers.
The other day, I saw a picture on Facebook of him pooping in the backyard, under a tree. He is literally being raised by dogs.
I’m not judging, because that’s something I prefer to do in line at Walmart. These are people I love, both my friends and their children. But every time I hear another tale of horror, I thank the gods of all the major religions that that isn’t me. I have done my time, and I don’t want to wipe anymore adorable little asses or fight over irrational things like cutting the sandwich in squares instead of triangles.
Now, if a child of mine says, “I think I am going to throw up,” I
can scream back, “Don’t just stand there; do it in the toilet!” If I make them turn off the television so we
can go run an errand, they don’t throw a car at me. If no one wants to eat the
fabulous Brussels sprouts I am making for dinner, then they don’t. What the
fuck do I care? I like Brussels sprouts, dammit, and I am going to slice them
thinly and sauté them in a good Spanish olive oil and dust them with Pecorino,
and if the children don’t like it, then they don’t have to eat it. I know they
aren’t going to starve. They also aren’t going to break down crying, turn their
plates over their heads and collapse on the floor in a heap of kicks and
flails. They can get up and make their own goddamn dinners, right after they
get over their fear of knives and the toaster oven.
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