Like a Two-Year-Old

She’s not two yet, but she’s practicing hard to be.

Which means I’m thinking like a two-year-old. I mean, I think parents’ brains must get re-wired, or else they’d go crazy. Now I can go crazy and it feels normal. You know the two second attention span? The sentence that starts “I want” and ends up with a list so contradictory it could be a political promise or a justification for war with Iraq? I want agua!, juice! shoes! socks off! go outside! book! up! walk! babydoll! DC! (that means CD), bubbles! bath! flaffle! (waffle)! poon! (either phone or spoon, depending on the context, which, as you see, isn’t always easy to tell).

Thank G-d for the group They Might Be Giants, and their album “NO!”

Now when my nearly-two tyrant makes multiple demands I can sing “Violin,” a song which, in our version, allows words to be paired with musical notes: violin-lin-lin, hippo, mop mop mop mop. That song has her running all over the house finding objects—luckily we have a stuffed blue hippo. I just wish they didn’t spend so much time on George Washington’s head. We make up our own words. Works well in a stroller, too.

TMBG also helps out with saying no. When I break out into the title song, “no means no, always no…” with its seductive refrain “fingers pointing, eyebrows low, mouth in the shape of the letter o,” denial is transformed into play—you should see my little tyrant’s eyebrows go low and her fingers point!

She's almost two. By the time we finish singing she's forgotten what she was insisting on in the first place (usually milk. I can't seem to get her weaned!)

Nevertheless, there are things that music can’t help with. And that’s what work outside the home is for. or pretending to be deaf (after five minutes of completely rational and entertaining explanation). Or earplugs and bourbon. Depending on the time of day.

Today I fled. I couldn’t take my girl’s clinginess (she wants me to hold her every second I ‘m with her. which is hard to do when you’re also stir frying her tofu or making her tomato sauce). I couldn’t take a tiny apartment full of three children (girlfriends' nannies get sick).

Yep--I left as soon as the nanny appeared. Which means I didn't brush my teeth, my hair or put on makeup. I was the first person in the office--even beat the Dean.

I feel like running for the hills.
There are probably lots of songs about that, too. But “Country Roads” (we’ve got the reggae version about West Jamaica) ain’t one of them.