My son is no longer a cute blob: he’s a toddler with a ‘tude. An attitude, that is. Over the past few weeks, he has mastered the floor fit, and lapses into it with high melodrama regardless of location or audience. The more public the space and the larger the crowd, the more vociferous his wailing. Naturally, the floor fits result from events which, in the eyes of a 22-month-old, are tragic.
Floor Fit #1: Uova, the Chocolate Easter Egg. Mr. Big Eyes is testing his linguistic, bi-lingual powers these days, and selectively chooses to use Italian with culinary words (acqua, pane, pasta, risotto, latte, uova) and English with the rest (birdie, helicopter, toe, truck, Teletubbie). Easter was a culinary revelation for him. First, he painted eggs with his girlfriend, Alice, and giggled when he discovered that peeling off their hard-boiled shell revealed a potential, albeit way-too-healthy, snack. Then, after another egg-painting session in a play group, he came home with a plastic sac all for himself with three mini chocolate eggs inside it. “Uova, uova, uova,” he chanted like an Alleluia chorus as I tied his shoelaces and watched chocolate saliva dribble from the corners of his Chesire Cat grin.
A week later, on a trip to Amsterdam, we stayed at a hotel that had a transparent vase in its lobby filled to the rim with chocolate eggs. “Uova, uova, uova,” he muttered every morning as we walked past the den of eggs in the lobby. We started off by giving him one: it was Easter, after all. But one turned into two and two turned into three (how else could we shoehorn him into his stroller?) and three turned into four (the car seat?) and four turned into five (the highchair at Pizza hut?) and five turned into a huge stomachache with putrid digestive issues seeping from his diapers. One day, on Uova Six or Seven, visions of Nancy Reagan pranced through my head: I just said no. Basta uova, ca suffit. Enter 22-month-old toddler from stage left for Floor Fit #1. I have a two-inch scratch on my neck to prove it.
The second moment, Floor Fit#2, took place at the hairdresser’s — his not mine. Mr. Big Eyes has a major head of hair. He has had about five haircuts in his lifetime. Only three have been professionally done and all have been horrible events. Ask him or ask me, and you’ll get the same answer. His Italian grandfather, who currently lives in Paris, had visions of taking his grandson to his own barber and proudly showing off his obedient cherub. Both trips led to a near divorce from my father-in-law’s barber, and a few more war wounds (not for Mr. Big Eyes but for his bodyguard). The Parisian barber has a special room in the back for dignitaries and high deities who want their locks lathered in privacy. It’s more Parisian chic than American kiddie-friendly and that was best represented in the “literature” they gave Mr. Big Eyes to distract him: a faded comic book from the fifties. We all went home in tears, and Mr. Big Eyes’ hair seemed more out of control leaving the barbershop than entering it.
Last week, I took Mr. Big Eyes to a barbershop in Brussels. (His godmother said it was a bad habit if, from a young age, he was already jetting back and forth to another city to get his hair done. We need godmothers to remind us of these wise nuggets of truth.) It came recommended to me from a friend with a rambunctious toddler who behaved during his trim thanks to the salon’s “accoutrements.” Sure enough, upon our arrival there, Mr. Big Eyes flipped out at the sight of the various cars he could drive while getting his hair cut (not to mention the cartoons he could watch on the television sets). Despite the stage set, Mr. Big Eyes felt a need to steal the show with an aria that almost broke the storefront’s glass. Mlle. Edward Scissorhands managed to snip with rapid speed and approximate precision which resulted in a sweet but short trim. He no longer looks like a teen idol with stringy sideburns and wisps tickling his neck. He’s actually very sweet-looking now, and so, at least he looks cute when starring in a Floor Fit. The prices for the kiddie haircuts are not listed anywhere. The sticker shock must vary according to the decible level and bruise factor of the child in the driver’s seat. But I was willing to fork over all that was necessary to give that boy a trim.
In these moments of panic and hysteria, Mr. Big Eyes transforms himself into a Grisly bear that makes me doubt whether or not I’m a patient person. After his floor fits or moments of aggression where he scratches or pinches, I often sit him down and wait for him to cool off. Then, I pick him up (the sight of a wimpering lump can be extremely upsetting), and hold him tightly to my test. Almost instantly, he stops crying, and transforms himself from a Grisly bear to a Koala bear. I’m always struck by how quickly he can switch from being irate to snuggly. I hug him with heartiness and hope the hunger for attention that he is seeking from me will dissolve.
So these are the start of The Terrible Twos, albeit prematurely. Are moms allowed to have floor fits, too?
