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A Little Perspective

Today started off as one of those days.

Apparently, Nicholas missed the memo that, as of tomorrow, the terrible twos are officially over. Or maybe he decided that he wanted to get one more wallop in before he turned three. Either way, I was the parent with the naughty child in the post office, with onlookers giving me either sympathetic looks or the stink-eye (obviously the stink-eyes were never parents to a toddler!). We’ve all been there right? You run out to do some errands, and your little one decides that it is the perfect time to test his limits. And if you say you haven’t been there, you either don’t have kids (just wait!), you have some magical parenting tricks up your sleeve (please share!), or your nose is growing. In any case, today it was my turn.

Let me say this before I continue: The terrible-twos were a non-issue with Benjamin. Sure, he threw the occasional tantrum, but they were pretty mild, and over almost as quickly as they started. Pierre and I patted each other on the back and said, “Yes! Maybe we’ve got a handle on this whole parenting thing. Go us!” Uh-huh. Then along came Nicholas. He’s pretty darn cute (see pic below), and one of the most stubborn kids I have ever met (wherever does he get that from?!). Not an easy combination.

DSC00152

So, there we are in the post office. Nicholas takes offense to the fact that I want him to stand beside me in line (I know. Horrible. How could I?). I “1-2-3-get-over-here” his stubborn-little-self with no success, then go get him, and make him hold my hand. Good gosh! You would have thought I had hot coals in my palm. Thankfully there was no kicking and screaming (the tantrum gods were being at least a little kind), but he did launch himself at my feet, and lie on his belly on the floor the entire time that I sent my letter and bought stamps. My favorite postal worker tried to coax him up with a sticker. No dice. Nicholas wouldn’t say thank you for the sticker, so said sticker ended up on Mommy’s sweater. Instead, the little bug took up residence on my toes while my face turned pink, and my hair turned grey (I am eternally grateful to the genius who invented hair-dye). Needless to say I was not impressed, and managed to sputter out a few apologies on behalf of my second-born. The postman gave me a sympathetic smile and said:

“I wonder which is harder to deal with: him (pointing to the blob at my feet), or my 91 year-old mother with dementia?”

Wow. How’s that for a little perspective?

I gave him a sad little smile and said, “I think you have me beat. I’m so sorry.” What else was there to say?

Suddenly, the healthy little boy, now cutting off the circulation to my ankles, didn’t seem so bad at all. He was doing what most almost-three-year olds tend to do at one time or another. That’s not to say that he was allowed to get away with his behavior (the toy he brought into the post office? Yeah, he won’t be seeing that for awhile), but the tantrum that had mortified me moments before suddenly seemed so insignificant in the face of what could be.

Mr. Postman, you have my thanks. 

xo Naomi 

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