My three-year old nephew stayed with us the other night. My wife agreed to babysit for a couple days and told me about it at the last minute so I couldn’t make other plans. She knows me too well.
Having a three-year old in the house again was quite an experience. The last child I had running around me was EM2, and she turns 20 this year. I haven’t had to deal with a toddler since Friends was still making new episodes on TV. I’m not cut out for it anymore.
So, when the kid showed up, I did what anyone in my position would do. I let my wife take care of him and I hid in the den. Problem solved. Apparently, I haven’t yet lost my touch. I have a feeling that I am going to be as good at being a grandparent as I was at being a parent.
Not that I’m in a hurry to find that out.
This experience was eye opening. I had forgotten a lot of the things parents of young children go through. Fortunately, my nephew was happy to remind me.
While my nephew was in the house, cartoons ran on the television set 24/7, half-eaten snacks were scattered around the floor as well as in his hair, and the shrill cry of, “Read a book?” echoed throughout my home every ten seconds.
When we fed him dinner (grilled cheese sandwich with some chips) he finished his chips first then dropped half his sandwich on the floor. Next, he asked for more chips.
I told him he had to finish his sandwich (not the part he dropped, I’m not a monster) then he could have more chips. He looked at me, nodded as if he understood, then said, “Chips?”
I told him again to eat his sandwich. He responded by pushing the plate away and saying, “all done.” I asked if he was really done eating, and he assured me he was. I took the plate away and set in on the kitchen counter. My nephew climbed down from his chair, walked into the kitchen with me, then pointed at the bag of chips on the counter and said, “The chips are right there.”
You can’t argue with that kind of logic.
Another joy of having little children in the house that I had long forgotten, was the late-night panic attack that comes with wondering if you are suddenly going to have to jump out of bed. My nephew wasn’t feeling very well when he stayed at our house, so putting him to bed went fairly smoothly. He complained a little, my wife read him another thirty or so bedtime stories, then he passed out like I had drugged his hot chocolate.
To be clear, I did not drug his hot chocolate. He didn’t have hot chocolate. I gave him water.
At about one o’clock in the morning, we were all sound asleep when I woke to an unfamiliar noise. My nephew was coughing in his sleep. I could tell my wife had woken up at the sound as well, so we both lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening for a repeat of the coughing. I spent at least fifteen minutes, breaking out in a cold sweat with my heart racing while I wondered if the kid was going to fall back asleep, or wake himself up.
I had flashbacks to all the sleepless nights of my own kids waking up suddenly and deciding that if they had to be awake then so did everyone else in the house. I kept waiting for my nephew to start crying or yelling for somebody to come get him.
Fortunately, that did not happen. He eventually fell back asleep on his own. After my wife and I exchanged a celebratory high-five, so did we.
The next morning, my nephew woke up before the rest of us. He must have had plenty to think about, because he apparently sat in his room and kept himself occupied for half an hour before anyone else moved.
That was the good part.
My daughter, EM1, poked her head into his room to check on him.
That turned out to be the mistake.
As soon as my nephew saw her it was as if someone finally pulled his string. Suddenly, he was Talking Tina with a broken volume control, and any hopes the rest of the family might have been harboring about further sleep were quickly dispersed.
Cartoons went back on the tv, my wife was reading picture books again, and my nephew was asking why I wasn’t making waffles yet.
That’s the other thing about three-year-olds: they never forget to remind you of the things you wish you hadn’t said. The previous day, I had mentioned that I might – might! – be willing to make waffles for breakfast. You would think the kid and I had agreed to some sort of blood oath the way he kept reminding me that he was getting waffles because I had told him he was getting waffles, and why weren’t there any waffles in front of him when I clearly promised waffles would be happening.
And, did I mention waffles?
Before you ask, yes waffles happened. What choice did I have at that point?
Over the weekend, one thing became abundantly clear: my decision not to have any more children was absolutely the right one. I don’t have the strength for this anymore. Two days was more than I could handle, and let’s be honest, my wife did the lion’s share of dealing with the boy. I stood in the room with my nephew for a couple minutes at a time, like I was trying to hold my breath underwater in a swimming pool, then bolted for my den to decompress and get ready for the next attempt.
When my own children start having kids, I may have to move to another country. I just don’t have the patience or skill set to deal with toddlers. We have nothing in common.
Or, perhaps we have too much in common. We’re both extremely self-centered, egotistical, and expect others to do our bidding without needing to so much as say please or thank you. We both want total control of the house around us and all the people in it. Maybe it’s not that I don’t like kids, maybe I just don’t want the competition.
I do have one thing, however, that most toddlers do not.
I can make my own waffles.
.
.
.
Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.
And you can follow me on Twitter @gallenwilbanks.