All our earth-shattering revelations seem to take place in the bathroom. Recently, while bathing the kids, Mark and I listened to them chatter. They have a favorite new twin game, tentatively titled Make Up a Hypothetical and Then Argue About It. Whoever cries first loses.
I can’t remember which hypothetical brought on the hysteria that night. It was either A’s, “We’re gonna go on a train someday. So I’ll go first with Mommy, and then Daddy and G can go.”
G: “No, I wanna go first!”
A: “No, because I’m going first with Mommy.”
G: “Noooooooo!”
Or it could have been G’s, “I a shark. You’re a unicorn.”
A: “No! I’m a mermaid. You’re the pirate.”
[Much splashing.]
G: “Grrrr! I a shark! I bite you!”
A: “No, you’re a pirate!”
G: “Shark! Grrrr! I is going to bite you, unicorn!”
A: “Aieeeeeee!!!!!”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a Faulkner novel. Stream-of-consciousness,” Mark said. Then the discussion turned to whether A would be dreaming about Care Bears or counting sheep. She dissolved into tears, wailing that the sheep were an impossible task, as there were only 19.
“Or maybe Kafka,” he added, thoughtfully, rinsing G’s hair. “A nightmare where nothing makes any sense.”
Like the fact that their olfactory senses have only recently picked up that it smells bad after the other one goes to the bathroom. Recently they both had to go, so they were arguing about who got to go first. A won. She’s a Tiger Daughter, y’all.
So G, who desperately had to go to the bathroom, was faced with the choice to go into a smelly bathroom….or not. “It smells bad!” he wailed. “I can’t go in there!”
“You’ll live,” I told him, as I helped A on with her pants.
“I won’t! I won’t live!” he said, tears running down his cheeks. “It’s too smelly!”
“Where will he go live?” A piped up. “He won’t live with us anymore?”
At this point, he was on the edge of a tantrum, I was over the edge of a migraine, and all I wanted was for him to get his butt into the bathroom so he could go to bed. So I picked him up and set him down in front of the toilet.
“Go. To. The. Potty,” I said, in my very scariest Mommy voice.
“Noooooo! I won’t live, I won’t! I won’t!”
I shut the door. “GO. NOW.”
From behind the door came the sounds of a toilet lid being slammed repeatedly. “If you break that toilet, I will break your–” don’t say ‘ass,’ don’t say ‘ass,’ — “bottom, young man!”
Yeah. Motherhood is glamorous, people.
In my attempts to capture this glamor, dear sweet Lord, but I write down a lot of stuff. Anything writing-related, however tangentially, goes into a file on my laptop labeled “works in progress.” Having perused it tonight, (all 126 pages of it), I will shortly be re-naming it “sentence fragments and random thoughts I meant to do something with but never did and which now make absolutely no sense whatsoever.”
It’s the twins. If I could just catch a ten minute uninterrupted period of relative quiet, some of these ideas might spring into being. Paragraphs might be completed. Knock-your-socks of posts would get written.
Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I would fall asleep at the keyboard.
The twins are now four, and we’re discovering the joys of four-hood. You see, each stage of parenting brings with it a new set of problems. Problems that you can add to the ever-expanding list of “Things Nobody Told Me Before I Decided To Procreate.”
Everybody knows about the Terrible Twos. But it’s only when you’re planning your child’s third birthday party that a dear soul with older children will lean in and stage whisper with poorly concealed glee, “You know, three is actually worse than two.”
Don’t blame the messenger. She’s not just a bitch. She’s a bitch who’s knee deep in a later, horrible stage with her children, possibly involving standardized testing, vampires, infectious mononucleosis, puberty, and Justin Beiber. (Not puberty of Justin Beiber, but that of her own child plus music of the eternally pre-pubescent Beibster. Didn’t want to cause hysteria.) Anyway, she’s definitely dealing with more than you can possibly comprehend. You’re freaking out over tantrums and nap schedules; she’s confiscating lighters and Victoria’s Secret catalogues.
Anyway, whatever the source: they’re right. I must have blocked out the actual details, but three was far worse than two. Naturally I expected things would get better when we hit four.
And then one day, having coffee with a friend, she leans in and says, “You know, four is even harder than three. I have a friend who calls it the ‘Effing Fours.’”
Ok. Hold up.
NOBODY TOLD ME ABOUT THIS.
And it’s abso-freaking-loutely true.
Four is the age where formerly charming children turn into teenagers. Like, totally. I’m so not making this up, dude. Complete with shrugging, dramatic sighing, eyerolling, and “It’s not FAIR!” It’s the age of entitlement.
I was expecting this. At, say, thirteen.
To compound the fun, my kids are dropping their afternoon nap. Most people laugh when I say this, because their kids haven’t napped since the age of two, but G and A have always needed naps. They still need a nap. It’s just not happening, what with the gorgeous weather we’ve been having and their sudden urges to swing from the chandelier and/or build the entire Island of Sodor in our living room.
Hence my scattered thoughts. And words.
Y’all, if you’ve got kids that are still napping, hold on to it with all you’re worth. You’ll never know how much that small chunk of time in the afternoon keeps you sane. Until it’s gone.
Oh no. I don't want to know about the fours. We're having a hell of a time with the twos! I'm a big fan of the ten months! Yesterday the twos invovled laying down on the sidewalk outside the children's museum and refusing to get up and walked until I dragged him. Then he screamed all the way to the car. I don't want to know about the fours. (fingers in ears) “nananananananana”
Ok, then I will be really nice and let you know now that it REALLY starts to go downhill once they hit 5 so you can get a head start on preparing for it. At 5, full time school sets in. While it might be nice to have those HOURS alone, the new attitudes brought home that were so graciously shared with them by other children more than cancel out the “free” time.
Noooooooo! Caitlin, I'm not listening, “Nononononono.”
Amy, Caitlin and I are just being nice and warning you in advance.
Wait a second….five is WORSE? I'm already seeing some things come home from school that surprise me….
Love this post! I've only got one 4 yo and I feel your pain. Somethings are better than when he was 3, and then we got a whole new set of bad sh*t that came with 4…like the attitude! Seriously! He hasn't napped since he was 2, but fortunately I do have a 2 yo who still naps and I cherish that time, even thought its gone down from 3 hrs to 1.5-2. Milking it for as long as I can! Hang in there. New follower – following you on twitter as @snackygirl.
@Hungrigyrl, thanks!
I thought 10months was bad. Looks like I have a long rd.
Laughing…Still laughing…okay, I only had one child. I always said I gave birth until the age of 12 then suddenly I realized I had spawned this alien. I don't remember much before 12 (years old that is)…might've been the shocks that rocked my world over the next few years (all because brains just don't work in the male species until they at least hit 30…and even that's questionable). I miss all ages UNDER 12 before the aliens (the hormone bath) abducted my son. Hope you get a chuckle!
DUDE, Kate Gosselin was the one who told me (via her interview on Oprah) that 3 is the new 2! Gag!
OK, I can't decided whether to laugh at “I won't live” and tears streaming, or want to beat my child for being sooooo dramatic.
And don't worry – Kate is about as dramatic as they come. So that feeling of, “I'm going to kill you if you don't stop this dramatic nonsense” is something I know very well.
Oh, Liz, the DRAMA!!! There were actual tears. If he hadn't had to go so badly he might have had a full-on tantrum in the bathroom. It was bad.
@Guerrina, one of the reasons I'm glad I blog is so that I'll have something to remember if my kids hit 12 and I've blocked it all out! Also, just so you know, it means so much to me to see you comment on almost everything I post. Thank you so much!
@Leighann, it does get better. Really. I'm just bitching for comic relief.
If it's any consolation my 27 and 22 year old can still drive me nuts at times. Although now I can boot them out and tell them to go home, because home isn't here any more. 😉
so true. E was a good napper and when he dropped his afternoon nap a little after he turned 3 I did miss that afternoon respite! but hey, all the more reason for an EARLY bedtime. 😉
Is it scary that I can relate and I only have one who is not yet 3? I've been hearing that 3 is worse than 2 (why does no one tell us this earlier?!) and I'm going to forget that you've said 4 (and 5- gasp!) is worse.
I did have to laugh at this post though, because what else is there to do? And the “it's too smelly!” thing is hilarious.
This post is my life exactly, the arguements are just 6 months less sophisticated over here. So four is going to do me in as well?
Jessica, I think it's just a stage like anything else. Somehow it's not as well publicized as the problems you face with infants, for instance. No, I don't think four will do you in–you're a superhero of a mom! You may have to refill your wine glass a little more often, though….