Personal Essay: Terrific Twos
My toddler is the opposite of "terrible."
by Ondine Galsworth
April 29, 2009
Since I was a late bloomer — or should I say, breeder — most of my friends already have kids in middle school. So in a way, I've been though the terrible twos many times, at a safe distance, with other people's kids. For years, they called and complained:
"She magic-markered the wall!"
"He fed the whole meatloaf to the dog!"
"They escorted us out of Barnes & Noble!"
My poor friends, I thought. I observed their furious kids rolled up into a ball on the floor, throwing sippy cups, screeching. My pre-baby self concluded that all the "terrible twos" talk was dead-on. I was dreading my son's toddler years.
Those parent-friends all fed my fear. I've been on Orange Alert since my son turned two, and all the dire warnings lobbed my way have been echoing in my head:
"You think you're tired now? Ha!"
"You think he's bossy now? Ha!"
"You call that fussiness? Ha!"
The terrible twos, I concluded, are not for the faint of heart, the unprepared, or the overly tidy. I've nailed the TV stand to the wall, bought fasteners for the bookcases, put everything of value in deep storage. Plants? Forget it. Curtains? No way. A
nice lamp perhaps to replace the crappy one I found on the street? Maybe next year. Preparing for the terrible twos is sort of like getting ready to have pony in the house: Clear the space, make it safe, and hope he doesn't poop on the Oriental.
My experience with my two-year-old can only be described as a relief.
As concerned parents, my son's father and I looked for signs of the first toddler tantrum like two rookie cops on an all-night stakeout: "Okay, here he comes, he looks mad, he's not happy leaving the park . . . Look out, he's gonna blow!" But, nothing, maybe
a whimper, then on to the next thing. Even when we put a safety lock on the freezer to keep him from getting at the "Ice ceeem!", we thought, "He's not going to like this. He's going to throw a fit." He didn't like it, he'd rather get to the ice cream, but
still, no full-scale meltdown.
It's not like he's some kind of angel. He has mastered the roll-up-on-the-floor position so I have to pick him up like a heavy bag of dog food. He has also discovered that he can use "No!" to answer any questions. Want to go to the park? "No!" Want some
waffles? "No!" Are you sleepy? "No!" And there's the occasional fit or all around naughtiness, like throwing French Fries at the dog even after threats of Time Out.
But for some reason, none of this classic "terrible twos" behavior bothers me. This, I can deal with. That first couple of years? Not as much. My experience with my two-year-old can only be described as a relief.
Anything is easier than having a new baby. Granted, I had a particularly spunky, non-napping, non-stop child. Add that to my vast inexperience and complete lack of help, and I was zombie! Don't get me wrong, babies are pure magic, adorable little gifts
from heaven, precious beings . . . Yeah, whatever. I'll take a toddler who can climb into the sink and get toothpaste all over himself over another all night burp-a-thon anytime.
About the Author
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Ondine Galsworth is working on a novel about her experiences as a go-go dancer
and a book about her new addiction, the rodeo. A New York native, she now lives in
New Jersey.
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