23 months of age
From June 1998
At 15 months of age my grandson was perfect. At 23 months, some of the bloom has gone off the rose. Now he's more like a wrecking ball with legs.
He leaves a trail like a small tornado. Emptying the toy box takes three seconds. Examination and distribution of its contents takes a little longer, but not much. One toy or another may cause a brief delay, but soon they're spread randomly across the floor.
A full toy box is a call for action, an uncomfortable collection that needs to be disbursed.
His discussion with his grandmother regarding the toy distribution section of his contract with himself went like this:
"Alex, pick up your toys."
"Huh."
"Pick up your toys,"
"Huh."
"Put your toys back in the toy box." One small hand goes out to rest against the side of the kitchen cabinet and one stockinged foot leaves the floor and starts to work its way up the inside of the other leg.
"Huh." The deep brown eyes begin to seek something other than Granny's face. Uncertainty is beginning to find itself a home.
"Alex," louder and sharper, "pick up your toys, now!"
Alex has no further comment. He's reaching for the yellow car.
"That's right," says Granny, "put it in the box." Now he's watching Granny closely, so closely that he misses the box and drops the car beside it.
That seems good enough to him, but Granny's still not pleased.
"IN the box."
Later we find it much easier to gather up the toys 10 or 20 times a day ourselves.
At 15 months he was fearless. Now fear is everywhere.
You would think that a bowel system only two years old would still be under warranty, but his isn't. It freezes up immediately and permanently when exposed to a massive white porcelain monster. There's a whirlpool in it that sucks in little boys and disappears them forever.
Granny and great-grandma didn't volunteer, they were charged with housebreaking Alex. After three days of "training," all of his plumbing was broken. Not even water was able to flow unless it was preceded by a few shrieks of terror.
Getting the food in is scary for the older folks. Spoons and forks are registered with grandparents as lethal weapons. Grandparents can be careless, too. They leave things like screwdrivers on the kitchen table and in a flash they are employed in evil schemes.
Outside of meal time, household items are much more entertaining than toys. Brooms, for example, are wonderful. The long handle provides a wealth of training for the coordination of muscles that are only beginning to develop their relationship with the brain. They also help confirm, time and time again, that gravity works on everything that is scrapped from a high shelf.
He has a big plastic baseball bat and he perches it on his 23-month-old shoulder expectantly. He's not easily discouraged. If he hits the ball, that's fine. If he doesn't, that's fine, too.
He calls that B ball, and he'll swing as long as Pop-pop will pitch or until darkness is too thick for a smooth swing. Sometimes there's a little hockey and occasionally some golf and football. Basketball is termed "shoot," and it takes over between innings of B ball. Sports are the only thing that hold no terror. I suppose that will come later, like the first time a hard grounder takes an ugly bounce.
Shortly after dark he touches Granny's leg just above the knee and says it's time for "nite nite." She mixes up his bedtime potion, Ovaltine and milk, and wipes his perfect face with a damp cloth. He hugs her mightily and she lingers, smoothing his blanket and making sure he has Pooh Bear. When she turns away I can see in her face that, terrible twos and all, these two weeks will be the best part of her summer.
He leaves a trail like a small tornado. Emptying the toy box takes three seconds. Examination and distribution of its contents takes a little longer, but not much. One toy or another may cause a brief delay, but soon they're spread randomly across the floor.
A full toy box is a call for action, an uncomfortable collection that needs to be disbursed.
His discussion with his grandmother regarding the toy distribution section of his contract with himself went like this:
"Alex, pick up your toys."
"Huh."
"Pick up your toys,"
"Huh."
"Put your toys back in the toy box." One small hand goes out to rest against the side of the kitchen cabinet and one stockinged foot leaves the floor and starts to work its way up the inside of the other leg.
"Huh." The deep brown eyes begin to seek something other than Granny's face. Uncertainty is beginning to find itself a home.
"Alex," louder and sharper, "pick up your toys, now!"
Alex has no further comment. He's reaching for the yellow car.
"That's right," says Granny, "put it in the box." Now he's watching Granny closely, so closely that he misses the box and drops the car beside it.
That seems good enough to him, but Granny's still not pleased.
"IN the box."
Later we find it much easier to gather up the toys 10 or 20 times a day ourselves.
At 15 months he was fearless. Now fear is everywhere.
You would think that a bowel system only two years old would still be under warranty, but his isn't. It freezes up immediately and permanently when exposed to a massive white porcelain monster. There's a whirlpool in it that sucks in little boys and disappears them forever.
Granny and great-grandma didn't volunteer, they were charged with housebreaking Alex. After three days of "training," all of his plumbing was broken. Not even water was able to flow unless it was preceded by a few shrieks of terror.
Getting the food in is scary for the older folks. Spoons and forks are registered with grandparents as lethal weapons. Grandparents can be careless, too. They leave things like screwdrivers on the kitchen table and in a flash they are employed in evil schemes.
Outside of meal time, household items are much more entertaining than toys. Brooms, for example, are wonderful. The long handle provides a wealth of training for the coordination of muscles that are only beginning to develop their relationship with the brain. They also help confirm, time and time again, that gravity works on everything that is scrapped from a high shelf.
He has a big plastic baseball bat and he perches it on his 23-month-old shoulder expectantly. He's not easily discouraged. If he hits the ball, that's fine. If he doesn't, that's fine, too.
He calls that B ball, and he'll swing as long as Pop-pop will pitch or until darkness is too thick for a smooth swing. Sometimes there's a little hockey and occasionally some golf and football. Basketball is termed "shoot," and it takes over between innings of B ball. Sports are the only thing that hold no terror. I suppose that will come later, like the first time a hard grounder takes an ugly bounce.
Shortly after dark he touches Granny's leg just above the knee and says it's time for "nite nite." She mixes up his bedtime potion, Ovaltine and milk, and wipes his perfect face with a damp cloth. He hugs her mightily and she lingers, smoothing his blanket and making sure he has Pooh Bear. When she turns away I can see in her face that, terrible twos and all, these two weeks will be the best part of her summer.
Perfect at 23 months old