I finally get the “terrible twos”.
I thought I understood when Thomas was two. He’d have tantrums – prolonged tantrums that seemed to rise from nowhere then disappear into an adorable grin. He’d test his boundaries, or at least I assumed he was testing boundaries, having read the phrase in countless parenting books. I didn’t really know how a two-year-old explored and challenged boundaries but I remember endless repetitions of “no”, “stop”, “not a toy” and “hot” until I was close to a tantrum. I felt ragged and the house was a Thomas-induced disaster, but the “terrible twos” remained abstract, a clichéd rite of passage for mothers to commiserate over at playgroup.
But now I get it because now I have a measure, a yardstick of terror. In fact, I have two of the them.
We’re still settling into our house in Cape Town. As yet, we have little furniture, few of the kids’ toys, no friends, and none of the regular activities that structured the days in Ottawa. We have lots of space, though, literally and figuratively. And in that space I can see more clearly how the kids have grown, how they’re changing, how they’re alike and how they’re different.
Thomas is now three-and-a-half, and his world revolves around Thomas the Tank Engine. He drives his trains into the garden dirt, through the grass and along the stairs. He comes to me when he needs a snack or just wants to share Thomas’ latest adventure. Otherwise, he keeps quite busy on his own.
He still gets upset, but his outbursts are usually predictable, explicable and consolable. I can see him trying to control his temper; his face gets red and his arms get stiff with tight little fists at the end. I know he really wants to hit something but most of the time, he doesn’t. Most of the time he lets out a roar – Grrrr! - to dissipate his anger. And when he’s sad or hungry or tired, he says so.
Contrast: his two-year-old twin brothers. Screaming, falling down, hands-in-the-butter-dish, toothbrush-down-the-toilet paragons of the terrible twos. Not terrible on purpose, of course, and no more terrible than your average two-year-old. But still….
Their attention spans are about as long as it takes me to go to the toilet. Their interests correspond directly to the immediate interests of their siblings. A toy dump truck sits untouched for weeks, then suddenly has its wheels ripped from the axles by feuding brothers.
They definitely test boundaries, and I’m not just quoting from parenting books now. No means yes, or rather no means, “Let’s do this again and again, and make sure she’s watching.” Leaping from the couch, twirling dials on the oven, slurping purposely spilled juice off the floor, attempted self-changes of poopy diapers. Having twins means all of this can happen within half an hour – much of it simultaneously.
Alex and Jon are at the “I do it” stage, which is wonderful from a developmental perspective. You know, though, that the satisfaction of being allowed to “do it” is usually squelched by the frustration of falling over, spilling or dropping whatever it was they were trying to do.
At least now I recognize this as a stage. I also recognize how charming and fleeting the “twos” can be: Pure delight at helping to unload the washing machine; uninhibited dancing to “Animal Crackers”; a refreshing view opened by every “What’s that?”; and a new wave of love with every soggy kiss.
