happy cliché #3: the terrible twos

Fred Farkle is an asshole.

Was an asshole.

I mean, he’s dead.

But don’t feel bad.

You’ve probably never heard his name, but perhaps you’re familiar with the phrase he introduced to an otherwise pleasant society somewhere in the 1800’s:

The Terrible Twos.

This ex-cowboy alcoholic postmaster who couldn’t hold down a wife and had nary a child to his name, coined a phrase in a drunken stupor that continues to thrive in a world that has long forgotten him.

Every single mother and father out there knows that the “terrible twos” is bullshit. Which means that every grandparent knows it also. So the phrase should be dead. New parents should not be fearing the one year in their perfect child’s life that will turn them into a small, hairless, wildebeest.

I mean, this kind of ignorance is only cute on Those Without Child Experience and The Expecting. For different reasons.

1) Those Without Child Experience don’t know, they don’t talk about it, they don’t care. And why should they? I’m sure they suspect something’s amiss, but just hurry up and get the child away from them at the start of this behavior. They’re bound to think it’s you and not the child anyway. And no one wants to be judged by the harshness that was once their own.

2) As for The Expecting, no one has the heart to tell them. In fact, The Expecting don’t actually want to know, so there’s no point feeling bad for withholding the information. Sure they say, “Tell me everything,” but what they mean is, “Don’t scare me, I have yet to finish the nursery. Tell me you love my paint chips and oooohhh over my registry instead.”

But in the spirit of Fred Farkle and being an asshole, I’m going to make sure you really know (even though you say you do):

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS THE TERRIBLE TWOS.

The phrase was a reflection of a man who could not recognize the true age of a child throwing a fit along his route. He also couldn’t think of a clever word that sounded good with the number one. So he muttered something along the lines of “terrible twos,” which spread like wildfire along the plains of an educationally parched land.

I know you don’t believe it, but your child is going to suck. Not always, and there will certainly be things that make having kids the most amazing and fulfilling turn of life and blah blah blah blah. But look, if you can accept now that your beautiful baby is going to fly into traumatic fits of rage with no clear start, stop or goal and it will not be contained in the Year of Two, it won’t be so bad. Expectations won’t be dashed and you won’t fear that you have somehow broken your child.

And if you happen to have a strong-willed kid who has their first tantrum at age 0 during a freakin’ diaper change, don’t start counting down to age Three. Instead, make an effort to count and clearly mark the days of your monthly cycle on a calendar in red ink. You will have better luck not spewing forth another child than to believe that your offspring will magically wake up a better addition to society on their 1095th day.

Because Three is the only year worse than Two, which was hella worse than One, which sucked a hundred times harder than Zero, which wasn’t appreciated for how easy it actually was because you were too busy comparing your child with your friend’s kid who was already walking and talking.

So enjoy the baby. The beautiful, crying, tireless, demanding, sweet smelling babe that fits in your arms and is happy to be there. Don’t push it to roll over, crawl, walk or speak. It will do these things on its own and your place of dwelling will shrink and become a little more boring with each milestone.

And yes, years 0-3 are mostly wonderful. I’d say at least 2/3’s. But arm yourself with the truth for the other 1/3 and it won’t be so overwhelming when it starts. Surprising, yes. But no one will begrudge you the shock.

Because it will happen, and everyone will survive. And when it’s over everyone will also have a new, deep appreciation for good behavior and the wonderful child (and parent) hidden beneath the angst.

So on this chilly November morn’, I’d like to present Fred Farkle with the first annual posthumous Asshole Award. Moms everywhere – raise a dirty diaper to the man who knew shit and deserved to be buried in it.

(We’ll revisit the ban on Fred Farkle when the child actually passes through the Terrible Twos. I hear this happens at age Four. Which is 104 days from today…)

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