Meatballs

The terrible twos were not so terrible for my twin girls.  Now that they are three, however, it’s a whole different story.  It’s as if someone told them they missed the terrible twos and they decided to make up for it by having the terrible threes instead.  The passion with which they make their wants and feelings known is impressive, unless you happen to be their poor parents trying to keep your calm in light of a massive melt-down over nothing.  I haven’t taken so many deep breaths in a long time.

Getting out the door with twins is another challenge, and this morning my husband and I were working together to get everyone’s socks, shoes, and jackets on in a reasonable time frame.  Little Girl A happily hopped off her daddy’s lap, her socks and shoes newly in place.  I helped her into her jacket and zipped it up, planting a quick kiss on her cheek, then took her hand and headed to the van.  We were half-way there when she suddenly crumpled at my side.

“There’s a meatball!” she wailed.  Her face contorted into a grimace and she began kicking her leg violently, her foot flailing around out of control. “Meatball!  MEATBALL!” she sobbed.

I took a deep breath. Then another.  Love and empathy, love and empathy, I repeated to myself.

I knelt down next to A used the calmest, most patient voice I could muster.  “Oh, no,” I told her.  “Is there a meatball in your sock again?”

She nodded, tears streaming down her face.

“Okay, let’s get to the car and I will check it out.  Can you walk to the car and get in your seat?”

She nodded again and let me help her to her feet.  She hobbled to the car, climbed in, and immediately started taking off her shoes and socks.

“Let’s find that meatball,” I said.  I peeled the sock off of her foot, turned it inside out, and inspected it.  Even thought there was nothing there, not even a lint ball, I shook it out and made a big scene before turning it back.  “Okay, it’s all good now. Let’s try it again.”  I pulled the sock onto her foot, making sure the seam wasn’t crooked since I expected that was the cause of the terrible meatball this time.  “How’s that feel?”

“No more meatball!” A declared, once again happy.  “Daddy forgot to check for meatballs.  Silly Daddy!”  She laughed out loud, all smiles and giggles, completely opposite of what she had felt two minutes prior.

“Silly Dadd,” I agreed as I put her shoe back on and buckled the car seat.  One thing I’ll say for the terrible threes: as intense as the meltdowns can be, at least joy, happiness, and humor are felt equally as strong.