It has taken some time for my husband and me to realize that weekends are no longer for us. Wanting to do something for ourselves is a faint memory of our past life: Saturdays and Sundays are exclusively overseen by our 19-month-old Boss, Mr. Big Eyes. We love him so much we want to devour him like a delicious carbonara. But, sometimes, often on Saturdays and Sundays, he challenges our patience in between hair-tugs, shrieks and floor fits. I tell my husband that we are verging on the Terrible Twos. (I haven’t confessed to him yet that some friends have told me that these times can often be followed by the Terrible Threes. I’m hoping that the reward will be the Fabulous Fours.)
The other day in the park I was comforted when I walked past the scene of a father walking large circles around his screaming toddler who was sprawled out on the asphalt protesting in nonsensical sobs as she pounded her fists on the underlying grit of the street. As he let his daughter rip, he whistled and paced around her. It was comforting to see that sometimes a major Time Out, Caput, Sink or Swim moment is felt by all parents and we shouldn’t feel ashamed to act on them in public.
This weekend, we saw that there are two types of typical outings for our toddler. The first was a success: the birthday party of two four-year-olds. Mr. Big Eyes was the youngest of the 25-toddler posse but he was also among the tallest. He was given a t-shirt with the birthday boys’ names on it that he wore along with all the other party-goers. The mom apologized for the size, fearful that it would be too big for him. Instead, it almost showed off his pectoral muscles. He kept the shirt on hours after the party, and kept pointing to it proudly, a souvenir of having survived his first Big Kid Bash. At the party, he didn’t fully understand the rules of “Musical Chairs” but it didn’t matter. He clapped his hands to the music, squealed like a satiated pig as he wolfed down homemade Madeleines, repeatedly slid down a plastic slide stationed in the middle of the party room, and kept trying to do a split (I’m not sure where this idea has come from because my husband and I can barely touch our toes). He didn’t want to leave but was consoled by the party favor of a mini-recorder which he could blow into (even though he hasn’t figured out yet how to blow — we’re still working on inhaling from a straw out of a juice box). A quick walk to the car on his Papa’s shoulders and he was smiling again. Minutes later he was asleep in his crib where he snored away for two hours. Love those birthday parties.
In the afternoon, we were invited to tea at a Spanish friend’s house. I realize the tea I offer my guests is close to what inmates must receive in jail. I always thought a cup of dirty water, a splash of milk, and a platter of ginger snaps did the trick. Instead, my Spanish friend showed me how it’s really done. She had prepared homemade chocolate mouse, marzipan, Belgian truffles, port wine served in crystal glasses, and Chinese green tea in exquisite porcelain cups. When Mr. Big Eyes saw the beautiful display on a coffee table at the level of his knees, he looked like a bull snorting outside a china shop. I sweat the entire time. Fortunately, relations between Italy and Spain were still peaceful post-The Brussels Tea Party. I was so relieved to get out of there without bits of French limoges rammed into my underwire bra. I brought along a Babar lunchbox of noisy wind-up toys that Mr. Big Eyes could play with which was a relief since he kept walking past her African tribal art sculptures and making the sound of a monkey.
In retrospect, The Brussels Tea Party wasn’t the right fit for Mr. Big Eyes. But, in the end, I love the informality that children bring to formality. I love controlled, kiddie chaos. Mr. Big Eyes keeps me on my toes but he makes me laugh just as much as my adorable husband. The most wasted day, I find, is the one in which I do not laugh. So, if I have to sip with caution, it’s worth it.
