Toddler Tales: An Older Dad Survives the Raising of Young Children in Modern America
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disbelief at the stark contrast between the Jekyll and Hyde personalities asks the teacher, “Why do parents let their kids get this way?” The teacher replies, “It’s a deeply ingrained social tradition where moms and dads want their children to get everything they themselves did not get and exercise freedoms they may lose someday. Moreover, many subconsciously feel this is good training for children when, later in life, they are confronted with decisions about different types of treats such as cigarettes, drugs or alcohol. The theory we hear is, kids will remember the frightening experience of being out of control with something as benign as sugar, and reason that they would be even more out of control with something more powerful. Get it”
“Huh?”
“They’re too chicken to say no.”
“Got it.”
Babyproof
The petite, sixtyish woman beamed into the telephone: "Marge, great news. My daughter's coming to visit and she's bringing the grandchildren."
"Oh, Helen, that is good news. I know you've been wanting to show them off for a long time."
"Yes, I have. But my daughter asked me a question and I didn't really have an answer. Of course, I told her there was no problem. She asked if the house was babyproofed. It's been so long since I've had small children around, I'm not exactly sure what she meant. Do you?"
"We-e-e-e-l-l-l," she sang, "And how old are the children?"
"One and three"
"I see. Well, as I recall, babyproofing is not the same as mothproofing or waterproofing; you don't spray for it. It's more like bulletproofing... preventing the children from doing any damage to your furnishings or to themselves. You know, sharp corners and all that. Listen, I know someone who knows about these things. Her name is Myra. Why don't I have her give you call?"
"I would appreciate that, I really would. Thank you so much."
"I'm happy to help."
Two days later, a shiny pink panel truck pulled into the drive of the big, ivy-clad Colonial on Maple Street. On the side, tastefully painted was a sign: Myra Dorfman, Babyproofing Services & Crane Rental.
A heavyset, youngish woman in a tan skirt and denim blouse emerged. She walked up the brick walk to the front door with clip board in hand and rang the bell. "Mrs. Doohickey, I'm Myra the babyproofer. You called?"
"Why, yes. Thank you for coming so quickly." Helen told the serious-looking Myra the situation, the ages of the children, the amount of time they were expected to be in the house and outlined as best she could the type of household they live in presently. "I really don't remember having to go through this with my daughter when she was small," she concluded.
"Well, you probably didn't go through this," the contractor said, sliding into her authoritative mode. "It has been proven that in the last 30 years, with improved diet and modern health care, small children are much smarter at an earlier age than children of an earlier era. They are also faster and louder. Also, due to the influence of television, they are far more apt to use destruction as a tool for building self-esteem. Cookie Monster has taught generations of children to speak badly and eat like pigs. Oscar the Grouch has been a role model for rude behavior. After watching hundreds of fist fights on TV, kids think they can punch each other in the face and not get hurt. Did you know that a child today is expected to witness over 18,000 murders on TV before age 12? Throw in Saturday morning cartoons and some Ninja Turtle videos and, well, let me simply say... you have a reason to be concerned."
"I see," the grandmother said, wrinkling her brow.
"You have a lovely home here," Myra said with a professional eye. "You'll want to move those antiques into a room with a locked door, or store them outside of the house Or I can bolt them to the floor for you. I can tape padding to the sharp corners of that table there. You'll want to screw sheets of
Lexan plastic over the lower sashes of those windows so that flying objects don't break any of the panes... it's bulletproof, you know. And, you'll want to remove everything from most of the drawers and cabinets of your kitchen, for the children's protection... unless you want me to install kid-guards. Is this carpet Scotchguarded? No? How about those drapes? And those white couches over there? They wouldn't look so good with grape juice stains. I can do that if you want. I also have a roll of clear plastic runway material I can tack down in the big traffic areas.
"All those little statues... whaddaya call 'em, nookiesookie? Pack 'em away in a box. That grand piano? Lock down the lid and cover the keys... or build a barrier around it with boxes of stuff you took out of the kitchen. I'd board up that fireplace if I were you. And don't forget to install dead bolts on the outside doors about five feet up. That way the kids can't run away and terrorize the neighborhood, know what I mean? I have pre -cut plastic sheets to cover the carpet around the toilets. You'll appreciate that, especially with the boy. And speaking of boys in the bathroom, you may want to coat the walls in the john with an industrial sealer. Maybe that's a good idea with all the walls, about six feet up to keep handprints and ketchup stains under control; it won't show on the wallpaper, I promise. I got a compressor in the truck that'll get the job done in about an hour. You should schedule me in for a post-visit cleanup too.
"Welp, that's it," Myra concluded. "All I can see for now. Want me to work up an estimate?"
"Don't you think this is all a bit extreme?" Helen said in disbelief.
"Well, it's your stuff, ma'am. I’ve been in this business five years now. I've seen what the little rug rats can do. They're really fast. It ain't a pretty sight."
Helen thought a minute. "I think you are right about the Netsuke. And about locking away some of this spindly old furniture. As for the rest, I know my daughter. She will be terrified that her children will leave one mark on this house. She will hover around them and watch them like a hawk and will remind and scold. She'll be nervous as a cat and will probably drive them into permanent paranoia. And I will say, "Oh, dear, let the children explore. It's all right." Really, now, if something gets nicked, so what? They will have left their mark on this house that's become too much like a museum, and I'll have little reminders that my grandchildren who live so far away wanted to come to visit... I'll show them those dings when they are grown and we will laugh about it. Maybe they'll tell their grandchildren about the nicks on the furniture they have inherited when I'm gone.
"And we'll sure have a good laugh over making this house 'babyproof.' I want my grandchildren to see it just the way it is. Thank you for coming. I hope I haven't wasted your time."
Myra nodded knowingly. "You sure you don't want a couple of kid-guards on the cabinets in the kitchen? At least you'll keep 'em out of the garbage and the toxic cleansers."
"Oh, all right," she said, delighted at the thought. "Go ahead. Then I can call my daughter and tell her that my house is now, indeed, babyproof. I'm ready. Bring on those mean old children."
Diversionary Tactics at Work
As any mother can tell you, two year-olds have eight arms. Perfectly docile one moment, they can trash a room the next. But try to restrain them by force and their survival instinct takes over, a game which mere adults have little chance of winning.
There's a rumor that on every child's gene map, you can see an infinitesimal section on chromosome #19 that is the repository of the accumulated defensive intelligence of mankind... from the days of running from dinosaurs, outfoxing the predatory carnivores, Moors evading the Crusaders, Romans evading the Huns, slaves evading their masters, et al. Inside this tiny gene are the basics... not elaborate, mind you, but the basic strategic thinking of Machiavelli, Augustus Caesar and Clausewitz. Maybe Schwarzkopf is in there too. It waits, dormant for the first year, but switches to "on" at a child's second birthday.
The first time you notice it is during the diaper change. Where once the placid little cherub would lie quietly or even coo as you remove the two pounds of urine-soaked wadding strapped to his body, now it's a game that begins with squeezing the legs together to prevent the diaper from being removed. While mom wor
ks unsuccessfully to pry the legs apart, a foot suddenly shoots out and kicks the container of wipes off the table. She stoops to pick them up and a rattle becomes airborne the other way. She ignores that, but by now the pants have been flung off the table by another foot and, just as she thinks she'll gain control by grabbing both ankles with one hand, the offspring executes a deft half twist and scrambles halfway off the table. Finally, after a brief chase, mom pins baby to the floor with a knee on his chest and finishes the diaper change.
The concept of diversionary tactics gels quickly. Watch what happens when the toddler sees dinner. You may have served juice with the meal, but cutie-pie wants milk. "Anything to get this kid to eat," you say and head off for the milk. Big mistake. While you're gone, the peas are dispatched to distant corners of the kitchen. You see what's happening, but before you can say, "No, no," the spaghetti ends up in the hair. That sends you to the sink for a rag. There you go again. The child is in complete control now; food is going everywhere except into the mouth and you are running madly around trying to regain the dignity of your kitchen.
In grocery stores, how do kids know when they get to the cereal department and you refuse to put their favorite sugar-saturated crispies in the basket that simply by dropping the jar of olives