In the months before The Squirrelly was born, The Queen and I had many discussion about whether we would prefer a boy or a girl, and, in the end, we decided that it didn’t really matter. But I can tell you one thing: if we’d been given a choice, we certainly wouldn’t have opted for a two year old. And I’m not just saying that because giving birth to a 30 lb. toddler would have made The Queen even crankier in the weeks following the delivery.
No, the problem with toddlers is that they are actual human beings. Unlike, say, infants. Infants share genetic material with the rest of our species, but that pretty much where the similarities end. You can’t reason with them. You can’t fathom their moods and desires. They have no memory or bowel control or sense of decorum*. They don’t even enjoy watching Arrested Development, for crying out loud — their idea of a good time is looking at a black square on a page. They pretty much exhibit none of the essential characteristics of humanity, aside from the farting. On the spectrum from “Pet” to “Person,” babies are much closer to your average box turtle than they are to you and I.
But that was okay by The Queen and I — we’re not crazy about people anyway. We get along famously with our cats, though, so adding another critter to the litter suited us just fine.
But there’s a big different between cats and kids, we soon discovered: cats become increasingly inert as they get older, while infants start crawling, and start walking, and start running, and start climbing, and start demanding that you play the “Best of Harry Belafonte” CD four times in a row. And one day you realize that nature has stealthily insinuated a little human into your lives. You start out with an infant, you wind up with a housemate.
So, long story short, now we got this thing crashing’ around our household:
Oh, well. If we had been given the opportunity to pick out our own toddler (out of a police lineup, perhaps), we couldn’t have selected a better one than the one we got.
Of course just because we like the little guy doesn’t mean we couldn’t stand two hours less of him every day. Sadly, this has not been the case since April, when, in the throes of a one-fortieth-of-the-way-through-life crisis, The Squirrelly a abruptly realized that Every Moment Counts and decided to stop squandering his precious time on naps. So now he’s a 9 to 5 job — except it’s closer to “7 to 7” job, and you don’t get a lunch break (unless downing a few bourbon shots while he eats his noontime chicken nuggets qualifies as “lunch”). The upside is that he goes to bed at night pretty reliably, though he has made it clear that he does so by choice and not necessity. Once, about a month ago, we put him down for the evening, settled on the couch, and started watching a DVD; “Hiya!” The Squirrelly said 10 minutes later, as he gamboled into the living room, having climbed out him crib and opened his door to his room. He hasn’t done that again since, but he probably figures he doesn’t need to. Just the knowledge that he can is enough to make us live in fear.
So what does The Squirrelly do with his boundless energy? Well, he enjoys the pool, for one.
We have him enrolled in swimming lessons for children under three, and man oh man does he ever love them. I think the allure of swimming is that we basically encourage him to do all the things we usually frown upon. “Kick!” The Queen yells from the sidelines, as I lead him around the pool, “for the love of all that’s holy, kick your feet!” And then, 30 minutes later in the pool’s lockerroom, he’s doing the same thing as I try and get a diaper on him, and I’m growling “you seriously need to stop that” and he’s all, like, “okay, look: you and mom need to call an executive meeting and get your story straight on this whole kicking issue, because I’m getting nothing but mixed messages here.” Additional (and otherwise verboten) activities he gets to engage in while at the pool include flailing his arms with a ferocity rarely seen outside Animal from The Muppet Show, and leaping off walls into a 5 ft. deep concrete pit (albeit a pit filled with a fluid mixture consisting of 4 parts water, 1 part chlorine, and 2 parts toddler urine).
He’s also way into spelling these days:
So far he’s got “mama,” “kitty,” and “duck” down pat, so he’s already well on his way to “chiaroscurist” and “staphylococci.” Which is good because his winning the National Spelling Bee when he’s 11 is pretty much our current plan for funding his college education.
Or I guess we could just invest the money we’re saving on groceries. About a month ago The Squirrelly apparently became epiphytic, because he no longer eats food and, we can only presume, now absorbs nutrients directly from the atmosphere. His boundless reservoirs of energy also have us convinced that he is photosynthesizing as well. Even though I married a botanist I never imagined I’d wind up with the Swamp Thing as a son.
* Well, okay: in this respect they aren’t that dissimilar from myself …