Now We are Two

One of the most frustrating things about living with an infant is that they aren't very good at making their desires known. They are good at making it clear that they are dissatisfied, but getting beyond that to a root cause that you can actually do something about is quite a bit dicier. An infant's wail of discontent could mean anything from "feed me," to "change me," to "I desire more Portuguese covers of David Bowie songs."

Toddlers are a bit better at articulating their desires. They generally accomplish this through pointing, a skill at which the typical toddler could be more precise. When a sobbing toddler points to the cat and then a chair, the obliging parent makes a good faith effort to put the cat on the chair; when this accomplishes nothing but annoying the cat, the parent might notice that the chair was next to a bag of puffed rice snacks and the cat was covering up the toddler's bowl. But still, a big improvement over indiscriminate wailing.

And then comes two. At two, a child can somewhat clearly articulate what they want and, generally speaking, what they want is ridiculous. M will often beg to stand in the refrigerator so that he can pick out food for his lunch or his snack. I'm happy to oblige him in his independence but what he pulls out would look more in place in the baskets on "Chopped" than a child's plate.

"Alright, contestants. Your baskets today include: a tub of margarine, an orange, vindaloo paste, and tortillas. You have 15 minutes to make a toddler's lunch. Good luck!" 

At two, you also learn what some of your child's "words" mean. For instance, "hough," which I thought for the longest time meant "cow," actually means "help," which further stands for "please help me get some more juice."

The most recent struggle with M has been the transition from his crib to a toddler bed. Now, in theory, his toddler bed should be a big upgrade for him. For one thing, it means that if he finishes his book before he falls asleep he can get out of bed and get himself a new one. But there must have been something comforting about the confines of his crib; four walls that establish the boundaries of a space that is set aside for sleeping. The bed has a stifling liberty to it. It is too much responsibility for him to choose to stay in his bed minute by minute. As I sit in his room next to his bed, listening to him strain against his desire to flex the boundaries of his new freedom I think about the tyranny of choice.

I trick myself into thinking that more choices will make me happier, but often it is just the opposite. I convince myself that I am choosing between one TV show and another, but really I am also choosing against all the TV shows I could be watching as well as making a sandwich, writing the great American novel, taking a bath, rebuilding a carburetor, founding a restaurant chain, and an infinite number of other actions and inactions.

Minute by minute I have to choose to be an adult. I have to choose to be responsible and reasonable, because it seems like "being a grown-up" is never going to become innate. Fortunately, the reason I need to be this way is nearby, breathing softly as he sleeps in his big boy bed.