Ode to Toddlers

Toddlers (and children more generally) have an uncanny ability to sense when we are at their mercy. Such occasions include when there are other parents nearby who we assume are better, happier, more patient than we are; when their teachers or grandparents are nearby; and in any number of public spaces where you don't want to make a scene.

Take the DMV, for example. It is a truth universally acknowledged that having to go to the DMV is one of the more soul-crushing errands (2nd to sitting in the waiting room of the Social Security office or Emergency Room). And it seems that no matter how deeply you paid attention to the DMV website, you will lack a necessary document or method of payment and be forced to leave and return.

So why would one choose to make the DMV more difficult by bringing a cranky toddler? On the unfounded hope that this time will be different. That they will occupy themselves, quietly and contentedly with their doll. Half way through the line I smelled the pungent indicator that Rosie had done her business. Unwilling to lose my place, I let Rosie, and all who stood near, suffer the funk. Naturally, Rosie had to broadcast her situation by yelling, "Tiene kaka, tiene crap, mommy!" (I made the grievous error of teaching Rosie the word "crap" a few months ago, because it was really really funny, thinking she'd promptly forget. Nope.). Then, after 20 minutes of sitting in the waiting room, my number was called. Of course Rosie decides to play coy, and refuses to accompany me to the not-very-nice woman at the license-procuring counter. I tried the exciting adventure tactic, "Rosie, come see! There's something fun over here by counter! Let's go see what it is!" I tried the scare tactic, "Hurry up! We have to leave this area! Quick, we have to get out of here!" (I know, I know, that's totally messed up). I tried stern mommy, "You better mind me, Rosie. I'm not playing." She laughed at me. Then I decided to just go over and put her over my shoulder, her inevitable shrieks be damned. That's when she fled, at the unprecedented speed of a cheetah. Like, I really had to work to catch up. She's zig-zagging this way and that, laughing at me. If that weren't humiliating enough, the shirt I'm wearing is riding up to expose my back fat. At least the others in the waiting room got a good and audible laugh out of our game of tag. After the third call for my number, I caught her, whereupon she becomes a limp and screaming noodle. The lady at the license-procuring counter was totally humorless. The whole time I'm holding Rosie and she's being an absolute pill. Stealing my phone, jerking my glasses off my nose, smearing the sight test lenses with mysteriously wet fingers, threatening to raise hell if I don't comply with whatever capricious wish tickles her fancy. Finally, I submitted my new glasses. Here is the moment preserved in a photo, a photo which I took in yet another attempt to further entertain and pacify.




I do love my daughters more than anything in the world. I would absolutely kill for them, die for them, and all that good stuff. But still, they can be pains in the butt!