Two year olds… ah the joy of having a small child that constantly looks as if it’s been electrocuted and is doing something you don’t want it to 110% of the time. Jack (2) is my second and last two year old. Do you want to know what the best thing about my two year old is? He is nearly three. Oh so close to normality, oh so close to being a child not a baby, I am very nearly about to almost be a father who does NOT have a two year old, and I can’t wait.
But not yet, at the moment when I want to do something I have to stop and factor into life the comedy that is life with this little boy. Obviously I wouldn’t change it for the world, and I love my little boy more than life itself (blah blah blah etc) but holy crap are they exhausting. Noisy, busy, loud, excitable, smelly, gross, funny, naughty, sweet and charming. Yes yes I know, I am so lucky he is wonderful. But I’m not really lucky am I.
Lucky is the guy who’s children are all three. Who don’t wear nappies, or eat sand, or cry when they are tired. He’s the lucky bloke, jumping in his car without raisins stuck to his seat and the inevitable waft of sh*t the moment he’s finally worked out how to strap the bloody child in. Lucky is the guy who’s three year old carries his own bag, wipes his own bum and eats all his food. Come to think of it Lucky is the guy who’s three year old is a girl…that’s proper luck.
Never does a two year old test the family dynamic more than a trip to the beach, and where ever we go at the moment seems to be a beach.
Going to the desert = The Beach.
Going on Holiday = The Beach.
Going to the Beach = The Beach.
The beach means one thing – Sand.
Jack is one of my favourite children, he makes me laugh all day long, but why when he goes near a beach does he feel it is necessary to do everything in his powers to ruin the experience!? Sand doesn’t taste nice, everyone knows that, so why would he eat so much of it, or drop his food in it, or put it in his cup or my cup. I don’t understand. Sand hurts when you get it in your eyes, so why would he roll his face on the floor in an attempt to fill his eye lids with grit. It makes no sense.
Jack’s ability to ruin his own experience is something even he is now aware of, so much so he rarely gets out of the car. Preferring instead to take up his usual position in the boot of the Pajero observing from above sand level. This all sounds marvellous, but as anyone with children will attest, he is able to scoop up at least 3 tonnes of sand with each toe and flick it liberally around the entire car, which in turn he will then drop his food into to ensure that once again his own experience has been ruined.
Undeterred by simply ruining his own lunch, he will then take to climbing from the back of the car to the front multiple times spreading more sand throughout the car. Sand, mayonnaise and biscuit seems to be his favourite little combo to then rub into the drivers seat until it has formed a suspicious and indelible paste.
You only get to be two years old once, perhaps its the last time life will allow you to be completely without consequence. Jack is three in January and I am buying him a mini hoover so he can start cleaning up after himself.
Until then I’ll just pick the brown paste of the back of my trousers every morning.