Piece and quiet

Yesterday, my 1-year-old daughter, The Bean, shambled into her bedroom and returned laughing her ass off while holding a pair of pink footie pajamas. Now, I think pajamas are hilarious, but this was off the hook. So I did what any responsible father would do. I draped them over her head and left her to run around, which made her laugh harder.

My son Austin, who was coloring, said, “Why are you covering The Bean?”

“She thinks it’s funny.”

And man, did she. Cackling, running, bouncing off of objects, cackling some more. At this point, the dogs started to chase her and bite her. She laughed harder and ran faster and it occurred to me that this probably wasn’t the safest endeavor. So I chased her, caught her, rearranged the babushka so that it looked more like a giant pink wig instead of a shroud, and sat back again, satisfied.

Austin said, “What’s wrong with that Bean?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it is, she gets it from your side of the family.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

So I decided to get my Flip video camera out before this spectacle ended. Unfortunately, neither of my children perform well for the camera. What was hilarious usually becomes mildly amusing, and some sort of misguided shenanigans typically occur. Austin used to chase the camera and I’d have to pedal backward and then hide in order to tape him, like a nature photographer trying to capture jungle apes.

So this time, on video, I put the pajamas over Sydney’s head. And this time, of course, she sauntered off without interest or hurry, totally ruining my video. Then Austin darted out in front of her and announced, “I’m going to pull them over her head.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Haha!”

“Hey! Don’t do that!”

“Haha!” And on goes the shroud.

The Bean accelerated, rounding a corner and tottering wildly like an SUV trying to make a tight turn. She was cackling like an asylum inmate as she headed toward a punch bowl we had lying on the floor in a box in the dining room for some reason. She hit the box, fell forward, and ran into a chair. Then she cried, loudly, and I had to swoop in.

So of course, immediately I’m all mad at Austin and have forgotten that I myself had her running around with the PJs over her head earlier.

I rounded on Austin. “Why did you do that? I told you not to do that.”

“She likes it.”

“She can’t see. I told you not to do it. Right after I told you not to do it, you did it. What’s up with that?”

“She thinks it’s funny.”

“She fell. She runs into things when she can’t see. You know that.”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Sulking now, defensive.

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t.”

So naturally, I have to win this hypocritical argument with a 4-year-old, and the only way to do so is to be more hypocritical.

“So why don’t you try it?”

Now, we have no open steps in our house, and as he’s draping the pajamas over his own head, I’m already starting to follow him to make sure he doesn’t stumble over anything. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him to walk into a wall or two.

“This is fun!”

He’s got his hands out, feeling for walls, and I’m pretty sure he can see through the pajama material. Cheater.

“Go faster.”

So now he’s running with perfect agility around all of the obstacles in the living room, darting around the coffee table, laughing, and finally he does run into me but I’m a reasonably soft encumbrance and all he does is flop backward, laughing more.

So he pulls off the blindfold and says, “See?”

So because I have to win this, I squat down and tell him all about how he could have hurt his sister and that if he does it again, he’s going into Time Out.

And so he starts crying. Like, way over the top. Heads back to the table and resumes coloring, still crying, putting on this big drama. “Why are you yelling at me?” and all of that. Meanwhile, The Bean has fully recovered from her trauma and has gone off to retrieve her pacifier.

Now, my mom got her this pacifier blanket thingy, so the pacifier is attached to this big blankie and when she walks around with the pacifier in her mouth, it’s like she’s wearing a very airy apron on her front as the whole works swings pendulously from side to side. Around the time Austin begins to settle down, she saunters past him on the laminate wood floor and uses it to performs a pratfall worthy of Jerry Lewis.

The blankie slips and falls to the laminate floor, one foot steps on it, and she immediately rotates 90 degrees in the air and lands on her back. And resumes crying.

So now Austin is blurting, “I didn’t do it!”

“I know you, didn’t do anything.”

But now he’s back into his theatrics. I calm one; I calm the other. I sit down at the kitchen table with him.

When this all began, I was trying to answer an email. Like, a quick answer. But every time I started, Sydney would come into my office and pick up all my papers, so I moved my Macbook out onto the kitchen table. Between all of these shenanigans, I’m typing a word or two to just try and answer the damn email. And for some reason, Austin likes to sit beside me and color when I “work” like this. So as his drama subsides, that’s where we end up once again.

I type two more words.

The Bean begins to circle the kitchen table and nears the dog food. Because she’s really big on trying to eat it, I keep a close watch. She passes without incident.

I type a few more words.

On the second pass, things don’t go as well. Because she’s put the pendulous paci-blankie back in her mouth, she’s one big moving violation and never watches where she’s going. One foot steps in one dog food dish (empty) and the other foot goes right into the other (not empty). Everything up-ends, Bean falls to the floor, and dog food goes everywhere. And then both of the kids start crying again.

Me to Austin: “What?”

Austin: “She fell!”

Me: “O… kay.”

By the end of the evening, I still haven’t finished this one quick email. So when Austin is in the bathroom — always an extended endeavor when number two is involved (not “Number Two” a.k.a Wil Riker from Star Trek) — I sit back down and finish it. Next to me is this coloring masterpiece Austin has been working on throughout the day.

I’m just closing my laptop when he comes out and he starts to sit down and finish his art. But by now it’s 8:30, well past bedtime.

“Not tonight, kiddo. You can finish it tomorrow.”

And he says literally this; I know because I wrote it down: “But Daddy, I wanted to color while you were working, but I spent all my time pooping.” A pause. “That’s no fun.”

Still, rules are rules. He climbs up onto my lap. We sit there for a minute.

And I say, “Hey, I’m sorry I yelled at you about putting the pajamas over The Bean. I shouldn’t have done it either. We can’t do that, okay? And you especially shouldn’t do something after I’ve told you not to.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

The kid gets it. He’s smart. Later, he told my mom on the phone that he wants to come up to visit her so that Mom and Dad can get some peace and quiet. He’s unable to explain what “peace” is, except that it’s like a piece of something. Like maybe pie.

Right now, as I’m writing this at 7am, it’s quiet in the house.

I wonder if I’m allowed to have peace for breakfast.

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