I sometimes wonder if, when I decided to have a child, I also unintentionally invited a wild animal to reside in my house.
And I ain’t talking about the dog.
I wrangle the toddler when it’s time for a diaper change. This is after he sees the diaper and immediately takes off in a sprint like he’s a speedy cheetah on wobbly toddler legs.
Once I’ve gathered him up, the whole changing process is nothing less than frustrating. When I finally strap him into the damn diaper, it’s time for the pajamas. He flops back onto the couch and slithers out of my arms like a snake. In my hands one second, gone the next. He wiggles and wriggles away, like a snake out of its skin.
When we’re all good and changed and relaxing on the couch… it’s not REALLY time to relax. No! Never! It’s time to climb all over Mom like I’m some sort of human jungle gym. The number of times I have had to tell my kid that he is not a monkey and that I am not a playground is too many to count on BOTH hands.
Food gets picked up and pinched in two fingers, peas and kernels of corn. I’m reminded of the baboons in the zoo who (disgustingly) pick fleas off of one another with their forefinger and thumb then hastily swallow them. Pick, pick, pick!
Hate your food? Spit it out. You know how those llamas love to spit? That’s my toddler. And when you’re done with your drink? Chuck it to the ground. We’re not civilized here! Not at all!
I walk into the garage after work and hear thunderous galloping from upstairs. Expecting to see a herd of horses, I am surprised every time to see that it’s merely my 28 pound two year old making all that racket.
The tantrums… oh, the tantrums. The screams don’t sound human. They pierce my ears. I think I’m living with a wild animal and I’ve become the zookeeper.
It’s a good thing I always did like animals.