How Old is That Kid?
My two year old J.J. had a sore on his sole of his foot this week. It looked bad, so I took him to the doctor. Well, J.J. is the size of a short, stocky 4-year-old. In fact, the doctor had trouble lifting him onto the examining chair.
Halfway through the launch, he said, "You didn't tell me he was this heavy."
It's because he's all muscle. Give or take the "fun size" candybars he ate at a gathering the day before while my grandma looked on in horror.
"I can't tell you how many of those he ate," she said when I came into the room.
Judging by the wrappers on the floor, it was about 13.
Anyway, I took off J.J.'s shoe--which is a big problem to begin with. He does not like to be shoeless in any circumstances.
"Shoe on! Shoe on!" he started yelling, while writhing as if in great pain. Which I don't think he was--other than the emotional anguish of being barefoot.
The doctor took hold of his ankle and I was trying to hold J.J. still so that the doctor could see the sore.
"Shoe on! Shoe on!"
The doctor looked at me, as if to ask, "What is this kid's deal? And what is his first language?"
"What is he saying?" he asked.
"He's saying, 'Shoe on,'" I said.
The doctor popped what turned out to be a blood blister, and a splinter came out, which I'm guessing had to have been from wood inside J.J.'s shoe, since he is never barefoot.
Finally, as J.J. went totally ballistic and the doctor struggled to put Neosporin on a moving target, he said, "Santa is watching you."
And I was thinking, if only J.J. gave a tinker's damn about that or any other consequence, well, our lives would be very different in the Heos household. We would no longer have a short, stocky dictator ruling the roost, for instance.
After I put J.J.'s shoe back on and he instantly stopped crying, the doctor asked, "How old is he again?"
"He's two," I said.
"Ah," the doctor said in that smile only 60-somethings can give you.
It says, "I've been there. But my kids are grown now, so now it's your turn. Na na na boo boo, stick your head in dog doo."
"Now it makes sense," the doctor said. "I remember those days."
As for J.J.'s foot, it's fine now. But even while limping, he managed to overfeed the fish (for the second time this week.) Then, while I scooped out the extra food with my bare hands, so that I wouldn't have to empty the tank--again, he ran/hobbled out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
It goes without saying that the rickety old doorknob fell off, so I was stuck in there with my hands covered in wet fish food.
And while my hands were in the tank, by the way, our two aquasnails decided to make love. Meanwhile, as my hand scooped the middle of the tank, a tentacle came out of the blue one's shell--out of nowhere, I didn't even know it had a tentacle--and groped my palm. Look for that in the pages of my upcoming romance novel.
After wiping my hands off on a tiny Kleenex that I had in my pocket, I started banging on the door.
"Open the door!"
I could hear the Oreos package rustling in the kitchen. I estimated it would take J.J. five minutes to lick the centers out of every last one of them and throw the cookies on the floor. So I waited impatiently.
Then I knocked again.
"Open the door!"
J.J. walked over, and I could just tell what he was thinking: "Oh, I love this game. This is where mommy knocks and yells, 'Open the door!' and then I knock and yell, 'O-eh na noor.'" And so on and so forth forever and ever.
Finally he opened the door. And opened his arms. And said, "Hug."
I gave him a hug and he took me by the hand to show me the work he'd done in the kitchen, which was as I thought. In baby's minds, do people deserve medals for eating too many Oreos and feeding the fish too much? Do they have a to-destroy list in their heads, and they feel a sense of accomplishment when they check something off?
All I can say is J.J. is really lucky he's two. Or Santa would be stocking up on bags of Kingsford charcoal even as we speak.