By the time our third child was born, I felt like a seasoned pro. You develop that intuitive sixth sense as to what your children are thinking, even before they start thinking it. Anticipating in advance of what they’ll do in order to preempt subsequent catastrophe. What I had forgotten about, though, were their subtle personality differences throughout their development.
Our son was our first born. Being the oaf that I am, I was deathly afraid that I would break or maim him as a baby. He was more or less raised in bubble wrap by my wife and me. In turn, he always seemed a little more cautious as a toddler. Now, however, he barrels down the street on his bike in excess of 30 mph and is an extreme roller coaster fanatic. He’s the thriller seeker, the envelope pusher. The experimentee of all-things road rash. He represents the epitome of mental mutiny.
Our oldest daughter was second. She was our climber and our “button-pusher”. There were several instances where I would find her standing on the dining room table. I’d pull her down, only to find her back up there five minutes later…waiting for some kind of reaction. Well into her childhood now, she can still be found power-vaulting over the couch like an Olympic gymnast as well as continuing to fine-tune the art of pushing her brother’s buttons. Her M.O. is apparently plowing the status quo.
Our youngest daughter is just starting to come into her own. Fiercely independent and vocal immediately come to mind. We walk one way, she sprints the other. Moving her away from rummaging through a kitchen cabinet is often met with unrepentant physical and verbal rebellion. Although of independent body and mind, she’s also much like her siblings in many ways. Regrettably, both as thrill seeker and climber. Something that has become painfully apparent in the last couple of weeks.
Upstairs, I heard a frustrated groan coming from my wife. As such sounds are common place throughout our tranquil abode around bath time, I remained unfazed and continued working with my son on his homework. Several minutes later, another loud groan was devised, followed by what sounded like the words “poop” and “carpet”. I winced awkwardly and announced to my son that it appeared as though I would be cleaning the carpet that evening.
Seemed that as my wife filled the tub with water, daughter had apparently scaled it behind her and tossed herself in fully-clothed. Exhibit: Groan A. As she picked up child number three, fully-saturated diaper forcefully evacuated its resident contents of number two onto the carpet below. Groan redux.
After a brief EPA Superfund clean-up, numerous mental notes on toddler Parkour techniques were jotted down for future bath-related events. Looking back, I’m really just still amazed at just how much water those diapers actually retain. I nearly needed a winch and a forklift to get that thing out of the house. For future potential money-making endeavors, I’m mentally filing away the idea of filling sand bags with Pampers in order to address flood prevention. Seems like a patent no-brainer to me.
My “Father of the Year” qualifications were enhanced just a few weeks later. As my wife ran the older kids to swim practice, I offered to keep tabs on our youngest while performing cooking duties on the grill and in the kitchen. Hey, I multi-task dozens of issues at work every day. How hard could it be?
With the meat on the grill, I grabbed number three and quickly moved to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. I left the kitchen door to the screened porch open, so that she could power-waddle between rooms unabated. That should occupy her for a good five to ten minutes.
While working at the sink, I happened to look out the window. Double-take. What in the name of Homer J. Simpson just darted across my line of sight? We’ve had an abundance of small animals stroll through our yard on occasion, but this was larger than I was used to seeing in the daytime. My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates upon realizing the specific species of this creature. Laughing and speed-toddling wildly across the backyard was number three…in true jailbreak fashion.
In under two minutes, she was able to open the screen door, descend the stairs, and bolt for freedom. First, ninja-like climbing abilities. Now, covert escape tactics. It appears as though this child has a legitimate future in the cat burglary business. Cue “Mission: Impossible” intro here.
However, the icing on the cake incident that effectively doubled my age came shortly thereafter. No longer am I turning 40 next month, as anticipated. Honestly, 80 now seems more accurate. Looking back, you think you’ve experienced it all as a parent of three. Then, there’s that five minutes of sheer terror that redefines your humility and leaves a permanent mark on your psyche…as well as certain articles of clothing.
In the kitchen one afternoon, I saw number three pick something up off of the floor and put it into her mouth. She was near the dog dish, so I instinctually grabbed her to see if she had shoved a kibble or a bit into her mouth. In instances such as these, preventative intervention is a prerequisite. It turned out to be cereal that had fallen from her high-chair. Crisis averted.
However, with trademarked verbal rebellion now fully deployed, there was a gag and a choke. As she was delivering her closing arguments, she must have inhaled a second, unseen piece of food. Choking quickly turned violent. Panic ensued. After numerous attempts by my wife and me to clear the blockage, I sprinted to call 911. Fortunately, she coughed up the obstruction moments before emergency personnel arrived. Her color returned. She was shaken, but fine.
The same could not be said for me. Eventually, my complexion returned as well. Pale gray. There were also those dozen or two nightmares that interrupted my lucid slumber that evening. But hey, at least the older kids got a personal tour of the ambulance, right? Psychologist Carl Jung once said “to be normal is the ideal aim of the unsuccessful”. Does this include successfully cutting my lifespan in half?
Subtle differences. Life served me with a few of those gentle reminders regarding our kids’ subtle differences. Much like the differences between 120 over 80 and 190 over 120 for blood pressure, 60 and 145 for a pulse rate, and 40 versus 80 in accelerated age.
It’s times such as this that I’m glad our kitchen isn’t carpeted. “Clean up on aisle three.”
