As I vacuumed over blueberry Greek yogurt on our wine red carpet, wondering how in the world, aside from using the same formula to rid one's self of dog messes, does one get the yogurt stains out of anything. When dry, a white-powdery looking dairy product that hardly comes off of skin let alone a thick carpet.
And then it hits me - she's two.
It seemed rather cliche to use the notorious words of "terrible twos" when describing the confused and angsty toddler, and up until recently I would never have even considered it for our daughter, who by design is a sublime angel. Not only cherubic in stature and demeanor, but far more intelligent than her slobbering counterparts, no matter how good they smell, or how cute they are in their lactose induced comas.
Our daughter, since she hit the age and before has been coloring Dora and Mickey, and has known her ABCDs and can count, at this stage way past eleventeen. Why physically she has been asking for and crawling threw tunnels that would inspire and rattle the tunnel rats of KuuChi. She has performed feats of levitation and flights of fancy from armoires and sofa cushions only to receive giggles of gross anticipation and fright by any passersby.
And yet, for week or longer she has been in a mode that I can only label as duplicitous, if not downright bipolar. From an angel to a screaming demon with poopy drawers, she has gone the route of driving my wife and I a little batty, and concerned.
It is like someone slipped a mickey in her pink and yellow sippy cup and it has distorted the fragile continued growth of that spongy brain of hers. Attacking "Yellow Puppy", kicking nanni, crying into a rage, not looking at daddy, not looking at mommy, not eating, not drinking, not understanding.
An acquaintance with toddler knowledge stated that their brains at this very age are going through a series of rewiring - all kids. I never hear about other children up-ending a table sending yogurt to the carpet. I also never hear about dads speed destroying a table, and removing any and all Barney sounds to their daughters' dismay.
I digress. It is a bit odd that I sit here in the kitchen, fluorescent bulbs buzzing above me that clarity should come in solitude and prayer. I could have been out on my motorcycle; a cold day, but sunny nevertheless. Probably should have continued painting the bedroom, but I am fairly messy.
As it is, I have been forewarned that three is worse than two for many, and the teenage years, especially for girls, is turbulent to say the least. What do I do? Hide in the corner, avoiding the gift that my daughter is like so many dads do? Never knowing how to talk to their children, especially the girls.
No. I have to enjoy this. And no I will not be putting on my priest outfit, practicing my Latin, in order to perform an exorcism on her, but just riding it out: watching her while she drinks her morning beverage, kissing her when she requests it, holding her hand on walks, calming her tantrums, kissing her booboos, checking out her boyfriends, helping her on her schoolwork, teaching her to drive, and finally tucking her in at night - all the while trying to remember to thank God for her and my wife.
