THE SONIC BOOMER
Once a week, I take my grandson to gym so he has the chance to interact with other toddlers and to pick up whatever cold is in style that week.
It’s not the gym’s fault. They try to keep everything clean. It’s the kids. Get 10 tots together and someone is bound to have something. I mean, the rest of the week they’re being hugged, kissed and cuddled (at best) or crawling across floors to eat whatever they find there (at worst).
The gym has a net bag where you are supposed to deposit any of its toys that have come in contact with your child if he has the sniffles. No one goes near that bag because the rest of us then keep our children away from that child. And heaven help the mom who wipes a kid’s nose while he plays — her kid is a pariah the rest of the day.
I can see exactly how those plagues wiped out the populations of Europe.
But other than potentially contracting a plague, Skippy has fun there, so I continue to take him. He graduated to Level 5, which meant the introduction of Bumpy Mats, his favorite thing. The teacher takes inner tubes and stuffs them under the play mats to make little hills. Then she puts on some jazzy music and the kids run around like lunatics.
Most of us have forgotten the surreal joy of surmounting a one-foot hill, but not these kids. You’d think they’re conquering Everest each and every time they get to the top of a rise. The inner tubes make the ascent somewhat wobbly, so there’s a real feeling of accomplishment. Plus, they’re running! How fun is that?
I was taking a phone video of the activity to forward to my career-oriented daughter when Skippy fell and rolled into the crowd of moms. His legs were in the air and his arms were flailing. But he got right back up — no harm, no foul.
It wasn’t until I reviewed the video later that I could see how he had done it on purpose. He waited until he was right next to this gaggle of women, then prat-fell at the top of the hill, so he would roll down into their legs while they made concerned clucking noises over him. A few reached over to help him up, but he sprung away like a gazelle, smiling proudly to himself.
He’ll be two years old next month.
“So this is when it starts,” I thought to myself. “As early as two.”
Meanwhile, I made a mental note to start cutting back on the over-reactions whenever Skippy does the least little thing.
It used to be cause for celebration whenever he held a paintbrush correctly or was able to hit a plastic nail with a plastic hammer. We’d march him around the room on our shoulders when he finished his dinner or buy him a treat if he had to endure a long car ride.
But the gig is up. He’s playin’ us, and it has got to stop. Now.
For him, this must be why they call it the Terrible Twos. He knows we know he knows.
Bummer.
