Some parents are sure their child will grow up to be the next Einstein; my husband an I are just hoping our youngest will stop acting like Frankenstein. I used to cut him some slack because he was approaching Terrible Two. After all, two-year-olds are expected to be unruly monsters. During this time my little Aidan-stein wrote on my kitchen cabinets with permanent marker. I had to forgive that offense because he's so darn cute. Then he developed the not-so-endearing habit of climbing in my bed at 2:30 a.m. and kicking me in the face every fifteen minutes until 5 a.m. I let that slide since he was a very effective human alarm clock.
When he turned three I expected that Terrible Two was over. Finally, my Aidan-stein would grow some restraint, tact, foresight, wisdom, even. No. As it turns out, one month into the third year of raising Aidan, this is not the case. This morning, as I languished in the pre-dawn euphoria of a quiet room sans bed visitors under three feet tall, (the height requirement sign is clearly posted next to the bed), something very awful happened. There was a reason why Aidan-stein was not ignoring the sign and kicking me in the face. It was not because he had suddenly accepted sleeping in his own bed.
Last week the little plastic lock on the refrigerator door broke, and I failed to replace it. After all, I thought, my youngest is three years old now, practically a man, soon to be off to college. I stood by the broken lock daydreaming. In my mind's eye, my Canary yellow sports car was hugging the winding roads of Europe.
By Loren Christie
Loren is a Columnist and Illustrations Editor for Mamazina. Visit her personal blog: Dude, Where Am I?