The 3-year-olds were sent here to destroy us.
Alternate title: WHY ARE THEY LIKE THIS?
“Though he be but little, he is fierce.”
What follows is a true account of a single afternoon in our life.
(Also: it’s yesterday.)
1 p.m. I have a call for work and no childcare, so I put the baby down for a nap and turn a show on to occupy the 3-year-old.
1:15 p.m. I’m midway through my call and 3-y-o has lost interest in his show. He meanders through the kitchen toward our bathroom. I register this but focus on my meeting.
1:22 p.m. 3-y-o meanders back through the kitchen and says something like “I flush, ah, ah, diapeh!” He is potty training so I don’t think much of it. I give him an enthusiastic thumbs up.
1:30 p.m. My call ends and I head toward the bathroom to see if his potty efforts need any cleaning up. Before I set foot in the hall, I set foot in cold water. I hop back, surprised. My brain clunks it together: the sound of the toilet still running, the inch of water covering our entryway, the 3-y-o’s cryptic words: “I flush ah, ah, diapeh!”
1:35 p.m. My husband arrives home for his lunch break. As he approaches the door, he sees me through the window and starts to wave cheerily. Then he slows, alarmed by the pile of bath towels in my arms and the unhinged grin on my face.
2:30 p.m. The boys and I are at the grocery store. We don’t need much, but I thought it might be helpful to remove them from the house where they were both dicking around with the box fans my husband set up to dry out the floors and crawl spaces. 3-y-o stands up in the cart and yells “NONNY NONNY BUTT HEEEEAD” and throws a bag of rice out of the cart.
“Stop it!” I hiss, jerking the cart to a halt. He sits, not at all chagrined. I pick up the rice and straighten just in time to see the one-year-old bitch-slap a box of cake mix off the shelf.
4:15 p.m. The little two and I pick up the older two from school and all four of us head to a Very-Well-Known Pharmacy. The older two have appointments scheduled at 4:30 to receive their flu and COVID vaccinations.
“It’s no big deal to take all four,” I had told my husband earlier, while toweling up toilet water. “The shots are scheduled and just quick pokes. It’ll be fine.”
4:45 p.m. It is not fine.
We are still standing by the pharmacy desk waiting to be called back for the shots. 3-y-o is rolling around the scuzzy floor wrapped in my winter coat. He has removed his little brother’s socks and put them in the wipe disposal contraption. He continues to sing Nonny Nonny Butthead. I can do nothing about any of it because I’m holding the very chunky baby and whisper-yelling at the 5- and 7-year-olds to “Sit down and stop messing with each other!” The line of pharmacy customers watches us out of the corners of their eyes and wonders why our family is such a shitshow.
4:50 p.m. What the literal fuck, Very-Well-Known Pharmacy?!
5 p.m. We are called into the back room, thank GOD. The older two – who have until now been boasting about how brave they will be – promptly become terrified of needles. The tech, instead of just jabbing them in the arm and getting it over with for Chrissake puts the needle down to listen carefully to their fears and wait for those fears to subside. Their fears ain’t gonna magically subside, lady! JAB ‘EM!
I think this while I remove a fistful of cotton balls from 3-y-o’s hands. He grins evilly and races over to the trash can to beat on it like a drum.
5:10 p.m. I am getting frantic. We are supposed to be at swim lessons at 5:30 but my oldest is staunchly refusing to sit still for her first shot. I am on my knees, gripping her shoulders, staring wildly into her eyes. “IT’S EASY!” I yell. “IT WILL BE DONE IN A SECOND. JUST HOLD STILL. YOUR LITTLE BROTHER DID IT! BE BRAVE, DUDE!”
I can tell the tech thinks I am mean. I, however, think the entire Very-Well-Known pharmacy team are mean for not telling me that appointment times are more like suggestions, really.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that 3-y-o has taken advantage of the distraction to snag the second needle and syringe – you know: the one full of COVID vaccine – and is brandishing it at his brother.
5:20 p.m. “Oh my fucking God!” I mutter repeatedly while speeding home to get the boys to their swim lesson.
“Butthead, butthead, poopy butt” mutters 3-y-o from the backseat.
5:30 p.m. My husband has the swim bag packed and takes the oldest and youngest while I drag the 3- and 5-year-old back out the door for swimming. “WAN’ SNACK! WANNN SNAAAAAACK!” wails 3-y-o the whole way to the gym.
6:15 p.m. 3-y-o was a perfect angel for his swim instructor. He is now done with his lesson and sits with me while the 5-y-o’s class takes place. I wrap him in a towel and hold him on my lap for a few minutes but he quickly loses interest in warm cuddles. I offer him a kid magazine and some crayons but he tosses the magazine into a puddle on the pool deck and chucks a crayon toward the pool. As I move to pick up the crayon and mag, he digs through my purse and finds a pack of gum. As I move to take this, also, away from him he chucks this, also, toward the pool.
“Want to look at pictures?!” I ask desperately. He does! Joy! I hand him my phone. He immediately starts taking photos of a random woman seated near us.
7:20 p.m. Somehow, we have made it through the lesson, showers, and stuffing of wet boys into sweatpants. Somehow, they still have enough energy to race ahead of me through the gym lobby. I have no energy but am trying to walk quickly while carrying our massive bag of wet towels, trunks, and distractions that didn’t distract them.
I hear the 5-y-o shrieking in panic. “NO, NO, STOP IT!” and try to maneuver more quickly around the other gym patrons. It appears 3-y-o has made it to the front doors, squeezed his way out, and is attempting to race into the busy, dark parking lot. His older brother has him by the hood, trying his best to stop him. 3-y-o shrieks and tugs, his sole aim in life to get bonked by a car in that parking lot. God bless. I start running-ish, or whatever you call trudge-running while weighed down with a swim bag and the weight of one’s day.
“Hey there!” says a man to 5-y-o as he approaches the gym and takes in the scene: one toddler running unguarded into the night, another attempting to hold him back. A bedraggled parent letting them run rampant. I register that it’s the principal of my son’s school. A mandatory reporter. Cool.
It’s 8 p.m.
I am tucking 3-y-o in while my husband cleans up from our day. My head hurts. We’d both love to hang out for a while, watch a show or chat. But I plan to go right to bed after the kids are tucked. At 8 p.m. Because there is no doubt this little monster will be up at 5 a.m. to wreak havoc. I feel like the diaper stuck in the toilet of life.
The little monster reaches up out of his blankets and lays his hands on both of my cheeks. He smiles sleepily. “I loh you,” he says.
He is destroying us. We adore him.
“I love you, too. Sweet dreams, sweetie.”
“Swee dreehs,” he whispers. “Butthead.”
And with that: peace.
