Outnumbered Two to One

My two year old and I spend a lot of time together due to my not being gainfully employed. It works out for us. Being that I’m with him 24/7 with few exceptions, I’d like to think I know him pretty well. That I’m attuned to the subtle nuances of his little boy moods. I know exactly how to field his frequent tantrums, how to coax him into eating that last bite of mac n’ cheese, how best to get him down for a nap when he’s feeling restless, how to distract him when he wants to overdose on chocolate cookies, or watch Ice Age for the 37th time.

Wednesday while I was chaufeurring my mother to her various appointments, my son was spending the day at home with his father.

I fully expected my son to be inconsolable. Separation anxiety is rough when you’re two, and my little guy is no exception. I slipped away that morning while my husband ran interference, keeping him busy with toys and talk as I tip-toed out the front door.

Now on an average morning, my son will have at least a couple of good scream fests, a couple of minor cries, with a liberal amount of whining sprinkled throughout. When I called later, everything sounded peachy, my two year old even got on the telephone to tell me about pancakes and the dogs and some other unintelligible mumbo jumbo. It was noonish and he should’ve been down for his nap, but wasn’t.

Twenty minutes later when I got home, I was embraced at the knees by an eager, happy two year old who promptly abandoned my jean clad legs for bigger and better things. Three minutes later he was begging me to be picked up, screeching when I wouldn’t, telling me to make him more pancakes, then not eating them, then having an arm flailing fit because I refused to sit him on the counter and let him get at the sugar bowl.

“You know he didn’t do that once while you were gone,” my husband announced from across the room, more than a little smug.

“Do what?”

“Cry, pitch a fit, all that. We watched one movie, he ate a plate of pancakes by himself, we played outside, we colored. He didn’t fight me at all.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m serious.”

All this while my rapidly regressing two year old rode on my hip, whining directly in my left ear and tugging at the collar of my shirt, occasionally reaching down in to my cleavage for no apparent reason.

Really? Really?

I suppose all this is further proof of my two-dler’s impressive manipulative techniques.

This kid, is totally playing me.

What he knows is that Daddy doesn’t mess around. In his world, no means no, yes means yes. And shrieking will get him nowhere.

Daddy is tough. Mommy is another story. Think of it as bad cop/invertebrate cop and you get the idea.

Now if only I could find a spine cheap on Ebay.