Brian Kantz, Buffalo, NY-based writer and editor

THE NEWBIE DAD - JANUARY 2008

THE TERRIBLE THREES

I felt like a frazzled Hollywood agent laying it on the line with his talented, but temperamental superstar. We should have been having this discussion in a tony L.A. nightclub, talking just loud enough that others stopped, lowered their sunglasses onto the tips of their plastic-surgery enhanced noses, and stared.

In my creative memory, the dialogue went something like this: “I’ve made you what you are — don’t forget that! And I’ve given you every chance. I tell everyone what a smart, nice, polite boy you are. Grandma thinks you can do no wrong,” I say to my three-year-old son. “Do you want me to tell everyone the truth? Do you want me to leak the news to the family magazines? Do you?” Red-faced and too exhausted to find words, the boy just screams: “Waahhhhhh!”

It didn’t quite happen like that, though. In reality, we were in our country kitchen. In our pajamas. With our God-given noses. Still a little sleepy-eyed and lugging around our 10-month-old baby, all I said to the three-year-old was, “OK, bud, in your seat. Let’s have some cereal.” And that’s all it took to set off his meltdown. He flopped on the floor screaming, “I don’t want breakfast, I want to watch teee-veeee!”

Oh yeah, did I mention that he’s three?

Looking back, I distinctly remember my wife and I making a joyous toast on the eve of our son’s third birthday: “We did it! We made it through the terrible twos unscathed!” It had been a placid year for the little guy, full of blessed conformity and obedience. “We have a little angel here,” we agreed, patting each other on the back. As newbie parents, we both assumed that if a kid was going to turn rotten it would definitely happen in that second year. If you could get past those “terrible twos,” you were home free.

What dopes we were. Hello, McFly! It doesn’t work that way! Kids are different and they turn a little rotten at different times. Now three years old — super-active, super-talkative, and super-opposed to napping — our son is a pint-sized Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Most of the time, he’s sweet as honey, offering hugs and kisses and saying adorable things. When tired or provoked, however, he grows fangs and claws.

At a recent trip to the sporting goods store (he loves to try on baseball equipment), he threw a landmark tantrum. After 45 minutes of perusing catcher’s masks and batting helmets, I told the boy it was time to go. Instant meltdown. Crying, kicking, screaming, the whole bit. The kid at the cash register didn’t even have to get on the loudspeaker and say: “Attention shoppers, please stare at the hapless dad and wild child in the baseball department,” because everyone was already doing that.

Beyond tantrums, he’s become well versed in poking his baby brother in the face incessantly, reverting to annoying baby talk at the most inappropriate times, and trashing the living room whenever I pick up the phone.

And it was almost as if he’d mastered the mischief overnight. One day, he was incapable of such behavior. The next day, he’s laughing hysterically at a cartoon in which Donald Duck’s ne’er-do-well nephews, Huey, Dewey and Louie, trick their unsuspecting uncle into eating a pie filled with “volcano mustard.” When Donald coughs out flames and appears headed for a grisly demise, my son asks me to rewind so he can see it again. And it makes me wonder if he’s Huey and I’m Donald.

But then, just as I’m questioning what I’m doing so wrong, something glorious happens. I’m out shopping at Target with the boys and our three-year-old is actually calm. Yes, calm and behaving! As we head down one of the aisles, we pass a mom who is frantically trying to pry her out-of-control, wailing son off a bicycle that’s way too big for him anyway. It’s chaos. She’s overmatched and desperate. Kind of sad and embarrassing. But inside, I let out a giant, “Yes! Ha ha! Yes! Woo-hoo! I’m not the only one!”

At the end of the day, it’s reassuring to know that your child is still a great kid — going through a stage that all children go through — and that you’re a still decent parent just trying your best.


Brian Kantz



		© 2008 Brian Kantz • All rights reserved • Contact Brian

	THE NEWBIE DAD - JANUARY 2008 THE TERRIBLE THREES I felt like a frazzled Hollywood agent laying it on the line with his talented, but temperamental superstar. We should have been having this discussion in a tony L.A. nightclub, talking just loud enough that others stopped, lowered their sunglasses onto the tips of their plastic-surgery enhanced noses, and stared. In my creative memory, the dialogue went something like this: “I’ve made you what you are — don’t forget that! And I’ve given you every chance. I tell everyone what a smart, nice, polite boy you are. Grandma thinks you can do no wrong,” I say to my three-year-old son. “Do you want me to tell everyone the truth? Do you want me to leak the news to the family magazines? Do you?” Red-faced and too exhausted to find words, the boy just screams: “Waahhhhhh!” It didn’t quite happen like that, though. In reality, we were in our country kitchen. In our pajamas. With our God-given noses. Still a little sleepy-eyed and lugging around our 10-month-old baby, all I said to the three-year-old was, “OK, bud, in your seat. Let’s have some cereal.” And that’s all it took to set off his meltdown. He flopped on the floor screaming, “I don’t want breakfast, I want to watch teee-veeee!” Oh yeah, did I mention that he’s three? Looking back, I distinctly remember my wife and I making a joyous toast on the eve of our son’s third birthday: “We did it! We made it through the terrible twos unscathed!” It had been a placid year for the little guy, full of blessed conformity and obedience. “We have a little angel here,” we agreed, patting each other on the back. As newbie parents, we both assumed that if a kid was going to turn rotten it would definitely happen in that second year. If you could get past those “terrible twos,” you were home free. What dopes we were. Hello, McFly! It doesn’t work that way! Kids are different and they turn a little rotten at different times. Now three years old — super-active, super-talkative, and super-opposed to napping — our son is a pint-sized Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Most of the time, he’s sweet as honey, offering hugs and kisses and saying adorable things. When tired or provoked, however, he grows fangs and claws. At a recent trip to the sporting goods store (he loves to try on baseball equipment), he threw a landmark tantrum. After 45 minutes of perusing catcher’s masks and batting helmets, I told the boy it was time to go. Instant meltdown. Crying, kicking, screaming, the whole bit. The kid at the cash register didn’t even have to get on the loudspeaker and say: “Attention shoppers, please stare at the hapless dad and wild child in the baseball department,” because everyone was already doing that. Beyond tantrums, he’s become well versed in poking his baby brother in the face incessantly, reverting to annoying baby talk at the most inappropriate times, and trashing the living room whenever I pick up the phone. And it was almost as if he’d mastered the mischief overnight. One day, he was incapable of such behavior. The next day, he’s laughing hysterically at a cartoon in which Donald Duck’s ne’er-do-well nephews, Huey, Dewey and Louie, trick their unsuspecting uncle into eating a pie filled with “volcano mustard.” When Donald coughs out flames and appears headed for a grisly demise, my son asks me to rewind so he can see it again. And it makes me wonder if he’s Huey and I’m Donald. But then, just as I’m questioning what I’m doing so wrong, something glorious happens. I’m out shopping at Target with the boys and our three-year-old is actually calm. Yes, calm and behaving! As we head down one of the aisles, we pass a mom who is frantically trying to pry her out-of-control, wailing son off a bicycle that’s way too big for him anyway. It’s chaos. She’s overmatched and desperate. Kind of sad and embarrassing. But inside, I let out a giant, “Yes! Ha ha! Yes! Woo-hoo! I’m not the only one!” At the end of the day, it’s reassuring to know that your child is still a great kid — going through a stage that all children go through — and that you’re a still decent parent just trying your best.