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05/07/2009
Fourboding
As if Ben at nine months, with his irregular waking, monomaniacal crawling, and two dastardly teeth, weren't challenging enough, I've come to realize an alarming truth: Four years old is trying to kill us all.
There is, of course, the figurative sense of that statement, the nerve-pinching spine-twisting what-the-fucking whiplash we sustain when four decides to swerve from mood to mood. In any given day, we experience...
Charming: "Your breakfast sure looks good. [Pause.] I finished my pancakes. [Pause.] I wonder if you know I like bacon, too."
Infuriating: A full-on rage breaks out over my uncompromising stance on handwashing before supper, culminating in my carrying a thrashing, shouting Charlie over to the stairs for a time-out, where he continues to roar, "You are not a very good mother." (My sotto voce reply: "Oh, I'm an excellent mother. A worse one would snatch you bald-headed.")
Tender: We're reading Charlotte's Web — spoiler: Rosebud is the name of Lurvy's sled — and Charlie's relaxing against my shoulder. He absently pats my breast. I take his hand and hold it instead, reminding him that it's nice to cuddle, but copping a feel should wait until you're joined with a member of the opposite sex in holy American matrimony. Or, you know, words to that effect. "But my hand was so comfy there," he sighs, and scooches down so that his cheek is resting where his hand had been.
Exasperating: Charlie is suddenly convinced that the sound of the flushing toilet — any toilet, not just the pressure-assisted ones that do, in fairness, sound like the space shuttle lifting off — is too loud. He approaches the commode with his hands clapped firmly over his ears, planning to operate the flusher with his elbow. Should anything interfere with this ingenious plan, like his mother, who at the end of a long day is rolling her eyes muttering, "Oh, for God's sake," the ensuing wailing will be louder than any dozen whooshing Flushometers.
Considerate: We're trying to hustle him along at breakfast, eager to get him to day care before morning meeting. (This, I assume, is where the preschoolers are given their assignments for the day. "Henry, eat gravel. Max, call someone an idiot. Charlie, you just stand here and make that noise a lot until it's time to go freestyle with a glue stick.") He's no longer actually eating, but he's still sawing away at a pancake with the side of his fork. I harass him mildly. He says, in a tone of gentle reproach, "I'm cutting this up for Ben so that he can have some, too."
Hilarious: He asks what's for dessert. "Nothing," we tell him blithely, and instead of succumbing to grouchiness, he turns to humor, asking us for a big brimming bowl of nothing. Which we deliver with no small degree of ceremony. Which he devours with theatrical gusto, down to slurping the last few drops with relish.
Terrifying: Charlie comes into the bedroom in the morning already dressed. He's walking with an unusual swagger, possessed of a barely contained excitement. Finally he can't keep it to himself any longer. "Mama," he tells me, proudly shoving down the waistband of his pants, "I'm wearing two pair of underpants...Just. In. Case."
But all hyperbolic metaphor aside, I really do fear for our lives. A couple of nights ago, I called Charlie in from the playroom, asking him to join us for dinner. He came out crying. "I wanted to play with my windmill," he sobbed, "and I tried to get up to get it, but it's too high for me to reach."
"We'll help you after supper," I soothed, knowing that the windmill had been exiled a few months ago to the top shelf, well out of his reach, and assuring him that when he needed help, all he ever had to do was ask. Now wash your hands, and please, God, please, I will build you a thousand kickass windmills if you can do it without arguing. And then we sat down to eat. After the meal we'd both forgotten about it. It was a night no stone would grind.
The next morning, I was doing general a policing of the playroom before putting Ben down on the floor. (I don't like him to eat Legos between meals. If he does, then I find he's not hungry for his healthful lunchtime Scrabble tiles.) I found Charlie's mop, a yarn-headed Little Tikes affair that he brandishes with a little too much enthusiasm, especially near the kitchen's glass door, and went to put it in its place, inside its companion bucket. The bucket was missing, but that's not unusual, so I propped the mop in its designated corner and moved on with my cleaning.
And then I found the bucket. At the top of the heap in front of the very tall shelf where the windmill sits neglected.
See what I mean? Four will be the death of us, or at the very least, the maiming.
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Hahahahaha, oh, Four. How I miss you. Too soon you turn into Fifteen, all hairy legs* and slouching.
*(Seriously. They're like MAN LEGS. Where is mah baybee!?)
As I like to say, Four is the New Two.
Welcome. I am so ready to slam the door on four. Five will be welcomed with a parade.
Tell him to just climb the bookcase. Why bother making a pile of stuff that'll topple over. The bookcase is nailed to the wall, right?
Shame Everest is already conquered!
Why, sure it is, magpie! *hearty*
Laughing so hard I'm crying. Thanks for the uplift.
Sneaking up on 4 as my family is, I am with you on all these items. How the same child can be so amazing and so infuriating is hard to imagine. (Mine likes to wear her pajama shorts under her pants all day, but so far only one layer of undergarments beneath that.)
Can it be more annoying then almost 3? lol. Mine asks for food all day long. A banana. Applesauce. an apple. chips. hot dogs. cheese. juice in a cup with a lid. On and on and on. I find this food sitting on the table (or my bedroom floor, or the living room carpet) with one (or less) bites out of it and then she's asking for something else.
I also have a 16 yr old (and yes, the hairy legs are SCARY), and a 9 yr old (wants to talk on the phone and keeps asking for a Facebook page), and a 6 month old (sweetest of them all!).
The tower was hilarious and I loved the picture of him eating Nothing. Think I'll make that for dessert tonight...it is budget friendly afterall.
My then four year old climbs everyfuckingthing possible...now, that he is five, he still does and it drives me nuts.
charlie sounds a lot like my Quinn. Good luck to you!!!
Oh, this made me LAUGH!! Good luck surviving four!
I nodded my head throughout this entire post. My own adorable son is four, or should I say FOUR. Why does no one ever warn us about FOUR? Most days I don't know whether to laugh or cry at his antics (taking off his clothes at the veterinarian's office, discoursing on the state of his, um, boy parts, loudly, in church, throwing an embarrassing public fit over the fact that he wanted to bring THAT Spiderman, no not that OTHER Spiderman; even though he has 16 zillion Spidermen at home, only that one will do...today, anyway). Some days I do a little of both.
I found 3 to be Of The Devil, but my kid is weird. 7 is driving me to pop Vicodin and wash 'em down with a swig of Jack Daniels.
I'll share.
4 is pure evil. I've decided it's to make it easier when you have to send them off to kindergarten.
Lady, wouldja just teach the boy how to foot-flush already?
NEVAR!
You realize he will learn it from his friends and always hold it against you that you refused him this valuable life lesson.
Julie, this post had me laughing so hard I cried. And yes, you have very accurately described FOUR. I like four year olds, simply because they are so unpredictable and random. If it had been me, I would have just climbed the bookshelf. Have fun with your little guys, because before you know it they will have those hairy legs.
I am laughing and crying because this has been my week. The Wolvog strokes my cheek and tells me he loves me "a million trillion" and then five minutes later, turned into a howling mess when I suggested that he use the potty before the bath. We both dug in our heels about it (with me calmly reminding him of all he was missing with his choice and him sobbing on the bathroom floor saying, "but I really need to bother you after bedtime.") and he ended up without a bath, smelling like hell. This is coming on the heels of the ChickieNob's tantrum (which we have named Das Spaetzle Incident). And yet, pure joy this afternoon at the food store when they saw that they had left out a basket of sample chips and they ate them with glee over what a wonderful world this is that chips are given like manna at the food store.
Oh, I would be very afraid. Of four and of the ladder of death.
My four year old, Owen, got snacks out of the cupboard ABOVE the FRIDGE a few weeks ago. Since I clearly couldn't wrap my head around how he'd gotten up there, I obviously concluded I must have forgotten to put them back the night before. Imagine my surprise the following day when I rounded the corner into the kitchen and discovered him scaling the front of said fridge using the ice dispenser recess as a foothold. All this to say: I feel your pain.
Hahahahaha. I guess Paul was right when he adamantly refused me an icemaker.
Yes, I must concede that FOUR is kicking my butt. The climbing, the whining, the tormenting of the dog, the not-eating-and-now-I-am-very-hungry, the newest - peeing outside!! the joy!! the freedom!! the mortification of my 9 year old when he did it at her birthday party and the playground...and just when I am ready to put him out on the curb with a FOR SALE sign around him, he does something so hilarious (calling out "HEY SCOOTER BOY, What's in your basket?" to the 90 year old man on the power scooter at Home Depot) or adorable (running up to kiss his big sister to minute she comes home from school) that I have to smother him with kisses. My mother calls daily to hear "Joe stories". Wait til she finds out he's coming to spend the summer with her...
I suppose that five does get easier, just the same as four was a little easier than three, except that a new baby got thrown in the mix at that point, so the controlled, double-blind nature of the study was compromised.
In fact, what I find surprising now is the higher-than-previously experienced ratio of "considerate" and "tender" to "infuriating" and "exasperating." So much so that I am eating crow on a nearly daily basis (assuming I see a wedgie in the works, when really she's helping her sister up the first step...in a somewhat unconventional manner.) I've had to remind myself that five (almost six) does not require the same vigilance or strict adherence to boundaries as did four.
Ahh yes 4...what I wouldn't give to skip oh say 1-18...maybe we could just ship them somewhere..say and island..and give them all volleyballs.
And I'm there with the climbing..mine scaled the 12 foot pantry by ever so smartly the 1st time opening the doors and using each ledge as a foot rest to get to his Nerf guns. The second time he used a barstool..and 2 tubs (IKEA rocks) to stand on (the tubs are about 2 feet tall). It was spectacular.
Although I would love to find the cure for the "swarmy mouth" disease. So help me god if that child tries to rationalize why he should be watching Wow Wow Wubzy vs playing in Toys R Us (aka the toy room) I'm going to donate myself.
Someone needs me. Maybe.
I completely understand this post was intended to be humorous while describing the exasperating behavior of four (or three year olds in my case.) I know 1st hand most of which you write. I'm not trying to pull a mommy blog drive by or any type of vicious trolling, but I wanted to leave an important link.
http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=4988949n
This truely devasting story happend to my friend and I would never want it to happen to you or anyone who reads here. Just trying to spread the word.
Ah,
and here I was thinking I had reached the pinnacle of fear with an eight month old climbing out of her cot and also out of her playpen and attempting up the bookcase.
You mean to tell me they succeed eventually?
g
Oh crap. Because I was thinking that three was going to kill me.
Heck, well before age TWO I was breaking out of the house and going to wave at cars alongside the freeway. What ARE you complaining about? Secure the shelves and let 'em climb.
My three year old has taken to washing dishes, which is great until he comes walking into the front room with the two 8" chef knives. I can't wait until he's ready to start cooking.
I love the FOUR to SEVENs. If my adorable child lives to be eight years old, I will then give him away. Then, they start really caring what friends think. ICK.
I called Yao, and he said he can't reach that high. And he also asked that Charlie please be here by at least 7:00 CST to do a quick workout with the team before we get our tushies handed to us on a platter.
Five? Is four, with cussing.
Oh but he gets points for creativity!
ROFLMAO!! Thank you sooo much for the morning laugh! I have a 5 year old boy and I can soooo relate!
Two was bad. Three was terrible. Four was a nightmare. Five found us running to the Ped because 1 of us wasn't going to survive it. I am very afraid of 6.
It will all be worth it when you get to EIGHT.
EIGHT still likes to cuddle on the sofa before school, and thanks you for making a delicious dinner, even if it only got half of a thumbs up. EIGHT fusses about taking a shower, but will happily do the dishes one night a week, as long as you make dessert and play MarioParty with them. EIGHT makes you want to stop time.
If you hate 4, wait for 4.5. And boys at 6.5 are... *twitch*
But, as a teacher my least favorite age is 4-5. They are intelligent, they know it, and they are CONNIVING.
But god, their moments of sweetness and intellegence (Q: Where do seeds come from? Answer: Flowers. Follow-up Q: Well, yes, I know that but HOW do the seeds get there?) leave me in a pile of teacher-y goo.
Just repeat my mantra from when P was four--"Five is better. Everyone promises five is better." And they were right, five is fantastic again.
My little one is 2 1/2 and brought the stool over to the front door the other day so that he could reach the deadbolt to get out. Thankfully, he isn't tall enough to reach it even on the stool, but he's quite clever. I'm very glad I didn't see Charlie's ladder of doom with him around, otherwise, we would have our own ladder of doom in our house--probably knocked over in front of the open door, with a very happy child out playing in the sandbox. Did you have to remind me that they get smarter? Urgh.
God, I love that 4 year old of yours! And I have a lovely soon-to-be 4 year old daughter to introduce him to. Blonde and blue-eyed, she's a binge eater (I'm thinking of padlocking the pantry) and has been known to howl like a banshee at least once a day for no legitimate reason, but she might let him put his hand or head (or both!) on her (non-existent) boob. I won't tell her Dad.
Four is the age my parents realized that perhaps a revolving credit account with the local hospital would be wise to open, as it was the year that they became first-name-friendly with all the ER staff.
You may want to drive down & introduce yourselves & take a plate of cookies. Call it "insurance."
My four year old is afraid of all toilets other than ours at home. Whenever we go into a public bathroom, I have to repeatedly assure her that I will NOT flush it while she is still there. She'll use the toilet, and then start edging toward the door, and I have to grab her and pull up her clothes before she turns into Preschool!Streaker in front of the whole restaurant/store/etc. Then she races out of the bathroom to find strangers to take her away from all this, while I'm left in the bathroom to flush. This gets tricky when it's an automatic toilet, and I have to cover the little thingy with my hand so it doesn't go off, while trying to get her dressed and unlock the door WITHOUT flushing in her presence. (Washing hands? Yeah right.)
I'm so glad I'm not the only one!!! All my friends warned me about two and then three but FOUR? Nope. I was totally blindsided. I just thought my boy was a late bloomer! I also have an 18 month old (boy, a "professional little brother" as my husband calls him) so I think it amplifies the effects of FOUR.
Maybe you should consider padding the floor.
I was just gonna have him wear a helmet.
> Hilarious: He asks what's for dessert.
> "Nothing," we tell him blithely, and instead
> of succumbing to grouchiness, he turns to
> humor, asking us for a big brimming bowl of
> nothing. Which we deliver with no small
> degree of ceremony. Which he devours with
> theatrical gusto, down to slurping the last
> few drops with relish.
Charlie is now officially my hero.
Oh hell, 18 months is going to kill me. He's the one climbing everything and building step stools of all sorts (he figured out how to use the trashcan to get onto the toilet so he could stand up on it to flush. Repeatedly. Grand.) He's already pulled a piece of furniture down on his whole body (said piece is no longer in the house). If this one makes it to four without breaking a bone I'll consider myself charmed.
what? no one told you that this age is called the fucking fours for a reason?????
good luck.
4...FOUR. If we survive this year it will be a miracle. mine cannot.stop.moving.ever. and managed to walk under my feet, making me break my toe. Happy Mother's Day!
I chuckled through the whole post, but it was the extra "o's" in doooom that made me snort. Ha! Looks sturdy enough to me, Mom. I don't see the problem.
Thankyou, I laughed through all of this.
I was telling a friend the other day that I thought '3 was the new 2' and she just smiled ruefully and said 'just you wait til 4'.
One month to go....
Ok, so first I have to again tell you how much I appreciate your writing, because it makes me feel so , SO MUCH BETTER about my own 4-year old. However, I *distinctly* recall you posting a book cover promising that my 3-year old monster / enemy would become my human friend again. You promised. 2 was easy. 3, not so much. 4, so far, yikes. I'm beginning to think that the terrible 2s is just a myth made up to give us lots of good feelings to make it through the next...however many years...
He is for sure gonna grow up to be an engineer.
Is that a carton of eggs bombing your pic? :D I also noticed you've got the playdoh on the top shelf. Exactly where our playdoh rests. That, and the five sets of mama made spongebob legos.