From the Mouths of Babes

The Mrs. and I are currently enduring the Terrible Twos and the Terrible Threes simultaneously, courtesy of June and Olivia, respectively. Between the girls' age-related behavior, the fatigue associated with both parents working full-time in somewhat stressful occupations, and typical life stressors in general, things can occasionally be on the tense side in our house. And the girls commonly do and say things that send one of us straight over the edge.

But occasionally, they do provide some comic relief, even if it is unintentional.

We'll start with June. June has a bit of a temper. I blame that on the Mrs., since I am just about the most even-keeled, level-headed person you'd ever meet. And since this is my blog, I can blame anything I want on the Mrs. If she punches me tonight when I get home, it just further proves my point.

So, being the calm, collected person that I am, I was serenely cleaning up the kitchen--in between meditations, of course--while the Mrs. was giving the girls their baths. June, in typical fashion, was making the Mrs.'s life a complete hell in the bathroom, pouring cups of water out of the tub and onto the floor, fighting with Olivia over bath toys, splashing the Mrs., and shrieking her favorite phrase while getting her hair washed: "I DON'T WANT!!!" The Mrs. hung in there much longer than I would have been able to--um, I mean, were I not the even-keeled, level-headed person that I am, of course--but she eventually reached her limit of June's bad behavior and pulled her out of the bathtub. World War III ensued, with June bawling and flailing and screaming "I DON'T WANT!!!" as the Mrs. toweled her off. Finally, June belted out her second-favorite phrase: "I'M MAD!!"

The Mrs. responded in kind, "Well, I'm mad, too!"

June (suddenly in her normal voice after 20 minutes of screaming, as if someone flipped a toggle switch): "Why are you mad, Mommy? Are you mad at Olivia?"

The Mrs.: "No, June, I'm mad at you!"

June: "Why are you crying, Mommy?"

The Mrs.: "I'm not crying! I'm YELLING!!"

I had to cover my mouth with the dish towel to avoid laughing out loud and, you know, setting off the Mrs., who has the aforementioned temper issues that she passed along to June.

(That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.)

Fast forward to yesterday. My sister had a twin-sized bed that she no longer needed, and the Mrs. and I had been discussing moving Olivia up to a twin-sized bed for awhile, so my sister graciously gave us her extra bed for Olivia to use. Transporting the bed from my sister's house to ours, though, required me taking out one of the bucket seats in our minivan, which I had never done before.

Toyota has a really nifty system for folding down the back bench in the Sienna, as well as removing the bucket seats from the second row. However, since I had never had to remove a seat before, I couldn't immediately get the anchor system to release to get the seat out. To make a long story short, Chuck and I spent thirty minutes trying to figure it out, complete with multiple failed attempts, plentiful cursing, profuse sweating, breaks to reassess strategy, busting of knuckles, and Chuck's wife laughing at us. Eventually, we were reduced to the ultimate humiliation of getting out the owner's manual and reading the directions.

About fifteen seconds later, we had the seat out.

Once I got the bed home and into Olivia's room, it was time to put the seat back in the van. I wasn't about to risk the remainder of my manhood by looking at the owner's manual AGAIN, so I was wrestling with the seat, without much success, when Olivia climbed into the van and squatted down next to me, closely examining the situation. After some pondering, and in a very soothing voice, she offered up this little gem.

Olivia: "Daddy? What's wrong with the f*&%ing seat? Is it a piece of s*%t?"

Me (barely able to keep a straight face): "Honey, don't use those words. They're not nice words."

Olivia: "Why?"

Me: "I know Daddy uses those words a lot, but they're not for little girls to use. Okay?"

Olivia: "Okay, Daddy." After a few seconds of pondering, she gave me a pat on the shoulder and, looking at the seat, said, "It'll be alright, Daddy. You'll get it."

Me: "Thanks, Olivia. Oh, and sweetie?"

Olivia: "Yes?"

Me: "Let's not tell Mommy about this."