Diplomacy

To have a toddler is to own a tiny, 30 inch tall dictator, a mini tyrant that struts around the house with a limited grasp of the English language; who’s not completely potty trained; and who makes constant demands of her subjects in her own gibberish-laden language, a sort of hybridized form of English, with much gesturing and grunting that everyone around her strains to understand as they try to appease her.

I’m upstairs painting our hallway and come down to grab a screwdriver when I’m greeted by the sight of her highness the two-year-old in a heated argument with my wife in the living room. Not that this is much different from most of the communication we try to have with our daughter at this stage– discussions are most often ‘heated’ – and this time, surprise, surprise, it’s about food.

What is it about food that gets this kid so worked up, I’m wondering?

Her choices for dinner were: hot dog; hamburger; potato salad; watermelon; cantaloupe; pineapple; baked beans; or chips.

She opted for chips.

Of course, chips not being a particularly satisfying meal, it’s now 7pm and she’s hungry.

“Hot Fries! Hot FRIES!” she’s yelling at my wife, meaning that her majesty, pointing at the front door, is requesting a trip to McDonald’s. She’s come to know french fries as ‘hot fries’ over time, as in ‘be careful, those fries are hot!’

But of course, when she hears the word ‘no’ – as in, ‘no, our lives don’t revolve around you NEARLY as much as you’re convinced they do’ – she breaks into hysterics and during the ensuing tantrum, my wife does her best to give her highness several other, more suitable options, something, say, without all the trans-fats and the cholesterol.

As I re-ascend the stairwell, they finally come to an impasse; the dictator’s demands go unmet by her subject the Mommy, and after tense negotiations, a compromise is reached; her majesty will have pasta.

I return to my spot upstairs and after removing a furnace vent cover, I resume painting only to find another set of negotiations are going on behind closed doors, and just within earshot. I’m not sure which war is being discussed – most likely WW2 judging by the machine gun noises? – but the Generals are hard at work in the planning stages of an invasion, as several lower level officers are being chastised for their poor execution in the face of an intense enemy embankment.

I can’t quite make out everything, but it’s clear from what I’m hearing that things aren’t going well for one side in the war.

There are many, many sounds that bring joy in life, but none quite as intensely for me as the sound of a boy making machine gun noises and explosions while he’s playing with the standby of boyhood: army guys.

Our 12-year-old is directly behind the door where I’m painting, completely unaware that a spy is straining to hear his generals.

Interestingly enough, I can only make out one side of the conversation, as if there really are two people in there. I hear a mumbled voice, followed by shouts and reprimands…then the whine of an airplane, followed by another explosion…

Oh to be 12 again!!!

I’d take 12 in a heartbeat. Not forever, of course, but for a day? Even a week?

Heck yeah…

Two, though, not so much. I don’t think I could wear the crown of monarchy. The responsibility would seem too great…