One of the few regrets I have about my own college career is that I never took a class about child development. I pooh-poohed the whole idea when I was 20, simply because the idea that I would have children at some point was a laughable one. Ah, how we all change.
The biggest benefit to having taken said class would be that I'd have a better idea what was normal kid behavior and what was borderline pathology. Like, say, the Boy's insistence on taking so many things to bed with him that it is hard to find him in the morning.
Before I go further, just a note for those who were appalled that we locked the Boy in his room while he was falling asleep. To be frank, we only had to do it for a week before he figured out that he needed to stay put. When he stopped trying to open the door, we stopped locking it. And now that he's sleeping sans diaper at night, he knows that he can leave at any time if he needs to pee.
That transition alone has been an interesting one. We've discovered that the best way to ensure he stays dry all night is to wake him up to use the facilities just as we're going to bed. It seems cruel, yes, but waking up soaking wet is even crueler. The bladder is a harsh mistress.
There are few sights cuter than a groggy 4-year-old trying to get his pants down. Watching him snuggle himself back under the covers after his nocturnal micturition warms my heart more than I can describe. He just looks so dang cozy.
Before he can snuggle, however, we have to shovel out all of the stuff he's dragged into bed with him. Recently, the objects of his affection have been books. It makes me happy, of course, he's so fond of printed matter. What drives me nuts is how he can't be satisfied with just two or three of them.
Last night, he was surrounded by five library books, all of which were picture books of unreasonable size, five books from his bookshelves, including one that makes noise when you push a button, two stuffed Ugli monsters, a magnadoodle, a stuffed Plankton (from SpongeBob SquarePants, for those who no longer know the primo kid TV) and a pocket-sized tape measure from my knitting bag.
His blankie was also in there but had gotten buried in the mix.
The composition of the stuff he sleeps with varies according to his preschooler whims. One night, he was surrounded by every toy car in his room. Another night it was 10 stuffed toys. The most memorable was the three-foot long foam sword. It was still in his sleeping hand, just in case pirates should attack during the night.
Had I taken a child psych class, I would know if this desire to surround one's unconscious self with stuff is within normal range or something to go talk to a professional about. Is this a sign of an incipient hoarder who will have a room full of used slurpee cups and bits of twine when he's 30? Is he responding to my need to throw things out because clutter starts to make me a little mental?
I am overthinking this, I know. It's what I do.
Another thing that I keep overthinking is the phrase "terrible twos." I can say with great sincerity that age 2 for my two wasn't that bad. They could walk. They could feed themselves. They slept (mostly) through the night.
Two was fun, in fact. It didn't take much to dazzle them. A helium balloon was the best entertainment ever. If one of those wasn't around, anything shiny or loud was good for a laugh.
It's age 4 that I find hard to take _ but there is no nice catchphrase for this age. No "Fearsome Four" or "For Pete's Sake Four." There's one that I have found myself saying in my own head every now and again _ but its f-word is not one that I'd print in a family newspaper. It does sum up my feelings during the more trying times.
Four is the age where they want to be completely independent but can't, of course, because they are 4. Every last adult utterance is questioned. No "why" or "I won't" goes unturned.
Four is also like living with 16 personalities crammed into one 35-pound body. Today, the Boy loves grilled cheese sandwiches. Tomorrow, they are the worst thing ever invented by humans. He loves preschool! He hates preschool! Nothing is ever just OK. All feelings, whether joy or hatred, are turned up to 11.
I'd say that this is a normal stage but, clearly, don't actually know that. My fingers are crossed. I'm sure that if I dig around in the Boy's bed, I could find a lucky rabbit's foot to rub. Or the remains of Jimmy Hoffa. Anything is possible.
Adrienne Martini is a freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta and Hartwick College, mom to Maddy and Cory, wife to Scott, and author of "Hillbilly Gothic," published by the Free Press.
