Superman AKA Toddler Fever

Alllright, I was totally inspired to start this by Dawn, the ebay ranting, Pokemon card selling mom from CA. To begin I'll put up a few things I've written. After that, you're stuck with what's going on in my mind from day to day. Honestly, some days it just isn't much.

Superman AKA Toddler Fever

Having a second child is a lot like having a second lobotomy. The first one makes you weird, the second makes you certifiable. My first son, darling boy that he is, was a bad starter child. No terrible twos, no bed wetting, never hurt small animals for fun. Almost five years into being parents we said, “We must be good at this!” and tempted fate by having another. After all, we’d been asked to be god parents after being told a certain someone hoped our influence would steer her child to be like our precious golden boy. Other parents asked our advice and we gave it, secretly wondering what was so hard about raising a small child. Ha.

My second child is… well… bad. Okay maybe not bad, but his prospects for the Nobel Peace Prize went out the window when he hit his brother in the head with a 2X4. And laughed. He looks so much like our other, sweet child, but then he looks me in the eye while stabbing the cat with a Play-Doh knife and I wonder, “Who is this little sociopath?”

I used to think bad things about women whose children threw tantrums in stores, pitched food on the floor in restaurants, and punched other kids in day care. Now I’m eating crow because my own little one is doing those same things. Only he puts his own twist on it. He doesn’t just throw food. He launches it at the waitress with a makeshift catapult. He eats apples at the store and throws the cores at other kids. He kicks trees while telling anyone who listens, “Gotta kick the tree, gotta kick the tree.” I’m not sure if he’s like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man or like Mike Tyson off his meds. One recent evening he answered the phone and announced, “No more phone calls!” and hung up. My frightened friend – who has seen the dangerous side of the little tyke – almost called the National Guard for fear we were all locked in the basement and a 3 year old was now in charge.

All this time I tried to shrug it off by repeating Kids Will Be Kids as if it were a life (or at least sanity) saving mantra. Who cares if people run from him like a capitol hill page runs from Mark Foley? Well, embarrassment came recently, along with an attempt at gender reassignment. You see, at a birthday party my little one was playing –unsupervised- in a bedroom with two other small children. I figured they’d get along well since one of them seems to be the reincarnation of Mengele. I’m making nice with other parents in another room when my bundle of willful defiance came running out … with a negligee. He had it around his neck and trailing behind him, a la Superman, and ran through the living room and into the kitchen, where owner of said nightie was doing the cake and ice cream thing. I’ve never been so embarrassed as I was fighting to take it off him and handing it back to the mortified owner. In front of 20 of her closest friends and neighbors. Later that night, back in the safety of my own home where he can kick trees and throw food without the fear of social rejection (just numerous time-outs and threats of being sold into slavery) when he ran into the kitchen and said “I’m just like you, Mama!” I cringed before even turning around this time. There he was, smiling the smile of the deranged, with my $25 NARS lipstick applied so heavily around his little cherub looking mouth that it made the Joker look tame. (I have a pic of this, if only I could find it)

At that point I poured a glass of red wine, and told him, “Great job, kiddo. Go show your daddy!” and locked myself in my bedroom. I came out again when the house was quiet, much later in the evening. My husband stood in the kid’s room looking lovingly into their sleeping faces. I’m afraid the little one threatened to break his knee caps if he sensed any foul plots afoot, like military school applications, because all my husband would say was “Aren’t they beautiful?”