Toddler Tales: An Older Dad Survives the Raising of Young Children in Modern America

by Lee B. Mulder

overboard, you will stop the cart and, while you are distracted and being embarrassed by the mess, will swiftly swoop one or more boxes of crispies in the basket... where they belonged in the first place, dummy.

  Playing with other children, toddlers can be possessive, have you noticed? As much as they would like to control every toy in the room, they are smart enough to know that some are worth sacrificing. Therefore, when Billy comes over to play, he will be steered to a low-status, sacrificial toy, whereupon its rightful owner will throw a fit and initiate a sensational tug of war to get it back, but at the last minute, will give up, whimpering at the loss. Billy sticks to that toy like glue for the rest of the afternoon, savoring the victory, while your little dumpling lovingly flits from one thing to another knowing each is now safe from the intruder's interest.

  And then there is bath time. "Babooz," the child cries, wanting to climb into the bath laced with Mr. Bubble. Off come the clothes and in he goes. He pitches a small toy out of the tub and, while you're chasing it, a pitcher of water hits the floor. While you're using two hands to wash two square inches of his little bottom, he's using two hands to create a wave pool. If you try to drain the tub to hint that bath time is over, he will close the drain with his toes, thereby forcing your attention on the drain; that allows him two or more hands to pour water over YOUR head for a final rinse. Or to grab the quart bottle of concentrated baby shampoo and squeeze it all in the tub while you're occupied. He lives through this by sprouting a wide grin and saying, "babooz."

  But my favorite time is bedtime. This is when Junior skillfully plays mom and dad against each other so that long after he's asleep, he won't be disturbed by their conversation because they won't be talking to each other anymore.

  I'm sure every household has a nightie-night routine. At our house, Dad changes the child out of daytime diaper and play clothes and into the nighttime diaper and jammies. There is some playtime. When it's time to go up to (God forbid) The Bedroom, mom takes him there with a bottle of milk to read books, say prayers, turn out the light and gently drift with him into the land of nod. Sometimes it works that way. Recently, however, if mommy initiates the routine, Junior cries in loud blubbering sobs for Daddy. Daddy, the omniscient 24 hour a day repairman, shows up to fix the situation but finds himself powerless, and thus, worthless. Mommy can't do anything either and is thus furious that Daddy responded at all. Meanwhile, the baby watches carefully and, at precisely the right moment, makes a dirty diaper. "Poo," he cries. No further explanation is required. In his best judgment, Dad departs, leaving the situation to mom. But baby decides to resist (remember the half-twist changing table escape move?) and becomes 30 pounds of writhing gristle, far too much for a 100-pound mom to handle. "Dammit, I need help," comes the desperate cry from the nursery. Dad reappears, bringing with him the one thing mom needs at the moment, more body weight. While mom pins the child to the floor with her knees, Dad manages to change the diaper of the now squalling, overtired baby. It's easier to change the engine on a Chevy.

  After willingly providing such a necessary service, Dad is rewarded with cries of "Mom-mom-mom- mom." Finally feeling totally worthless except as the heavy in a slasher movie, Dad decides once again to leave the final phase of bedtime to mom.

  But in the last second before Dad disappears out the door, Junior says in his sweetest little boy voice, "D-a-a-a-d-d-y." You look around to receive a blown kiss. "Bye bye," he says, waving, snuggled cozily into mom's lap, safe and warm.

  Ignoring your wife's Madonna smirk, all you can say is, "G'night, kid."

  Did I Hear That Right?

  What has become of the family dinner? That time in the twilight of the day when the elements join together to make an atom, when the delegates convene to make peace, when species mix and lambs lie down with sheep.

  Huh? What're we talking here, Ozzie and Harriet? Wally and The Beave? Not our house.

  First comes the call to dinner. A boy's face fresh from the sand lot pops in the door with "What're we having?"

  "Chicken"

  "Oh, Maaaaaaaan! I'm not eating. No way." A few rounds of light sparring later, I am able to sit with him at the dinner table and watch him squirm in his seat, picking at his toes with freshly-washed hands. His sister is wandering around the house, being herded by drover mom ever closer to the kitchen.

  In the distance, I hear, "Dear, put down the gun and let's go to dinner." The words have no effect, as I am telling my son, "Boy, take your knife and fork out of your eyes and eat your dinner." The shepherdess enters the room, shuffling one lone stray before her. Our eyes meet with a shared smirk of disbelief: Did I hear you right? But we say nothing.

  By the time mom gets to the table, the boy has cleaned his plate except for two lonely string beans. His sister is standing on her head on the chair. Dad has courteously let his food chill in order to eat with his wife. They attempt to hold hands over the Parkay in order to express a moment of grace and actually do find a moment of silence. Dad says, "Dear God, this is not funny anymore. Please help me find a military pre-school so I can get to know the cook of the house as I once did. Amen."

  No sooner has mom lifted her fork than the two year-old says, "Mommy feed me, mommy feed me."

  "No, dear," the strong mother says, "Mom is going to feed herself before she faints."

  "Wa-a--a-a-a-a-h," the waif wails, swatting her spoon to the floor.

  "Oh, alright," mom relents, trying to shovel in three bites while the child climbs onto her lap.

  "Bye," my son says, "I'm going outside to play." But before his second foot hits the floor, I state firmly, "Wait. You're not finished. Eat your beans."

  "Maaaaaan, I already ate a bean.”

  “Eat another one... in fact, eat both." A scowl creeps onto his face and stayed while he jammed the beans into his mouth and then held his nose while washing them down with milk. Still swallowing, he held out his hands with an impudent shrug as if to say, "So, Bozo? Am I done now? You want Hercules to clean any more stables? Huh? Huh?"

  I smile sweetly at him and say, "have a nice time with your friends." He is off in a sprint. His sister wants to go too, but she is mid-bite, sitting in her mother's lap. Scrambling to chase her big brother, she makes one teaspoonful of rice airborne, a clever diversion which allows her to escape unchallenged. She reaches the back door in time to see him jump into the middle of a street soccer game, and howls because she can't play too.

  Mom is unphased. Even as rice kernels lodge in her hair, she begins to eat her own meal in relative silence, relishing every morsel. As the last forkful is consumed, our eyes lock. It has been an exceptionally long day.

  Over the mild din I suggest, "Tomorrow night, let's have wine."

  "Good idea," she replies. "That will only happen if our children eat out of dishes on the floor."

  "Hey," I said, "If that works, we'll get them dishes with their names on the sides. And maybe we can teach them to drink out of the toilet.

  "Sounds good to me," said the shepherdess.

  Once I Was An Adult

  Big Chuck sat limply on a stool in the locker room staring at his socks. We had just finished an hour of racquetball at which he had beaten me seriously three games to none.

  "What's the matter, Pal," I said. "You look like a whipped puppy. I'm the one that lost, remember?"

  "Yeah, it's not you," he replied. "It's the kids. They're driving me nuts. Three years ago, I was on top of the world. Nice house, nice car, happy wife, a social life, no worries. I used to be an adult, you know? Now I got a two year old and it's all changed."

  "I thought you were coping pretty well. We all know kids are a pain. What set you off?"

  "It was the dumbest thing. When I pulled the car into the lot here at the club, I stopped a little fast and what should come rolling out from under the passenger seat but Derek's Tommy Tippy Cup. I realized then that this child and his paraphernalia have invaded every part of my formerly adult life. I use that car for BUSINESS! What if some custom
er had been aboard when that little red cup wobbled out from under the seat?"

  I just stared in sympathy.

  "Ah, it's not just the cup," he sighed. "It's walking into the house at night and stepping on sticks from the yard. It's getting up in the middle of the night and stubbing your toe on a fire truck. It's wanting to take a nice soaking bath and finding the tub layered with rubber ducks, fireboats and a toy teapot." He was really getting morose. "I miss a clean garage. We used to have plenty of room for two cars and the lawnmower. Now Derek has ELEVEN vehicles in there, not to mention an entire arsenal of nerf weapons, baseballs, tennis balls, large rubber balls and a soccer ball. I'm tired of the house smelling like diaper pail in the morning. It's wanting to have a quiet glass of wine with the wife before dinner and a) not being able to pry her away from the child clutching her leg, b) not being able to get a word in edgewise without a background of whining and yammering and c) having the wine knock you out anyway because you're so exhausted and not used to drinking the stuff anymore. Besides, it's no secret we could use the money Angie used to bring in when she was workin'."

  "Ah, you've got to ignore all that stuff," I consoled. "It's temporary. Only a couple of years of your life." He looked up from his shoes for a moment, and then drooped again. No sale.

  "Yeah, but I miss my old life. I