At two, my daughter (now 12 years old) was precociously verbal and quintessentially toddler, given to crying fits at the slightest imperfections in her life. I got upset with her too often, as I really didn’t understand the toddler way. Lately, I’m starting to feel that way again—too upset, too often—only this time the antagonist is my eight-year-old son, the King of Righteous & Rude.
So there we were last Tuesday night, Adam and I, travelling around the city in search of a catcher’s mitt for fall baseball. Modell’s was out because they don’t really stock up on new baseball gear until it’s closer to spring and the heart of Little League season. I was exhausted after a long workday, but Adam’s been so keen about playing catcher and I feel like it’s a passion worth supporting. So I agreed to go thirty blocks south to Sports Authority, to see what they had.
They didn’t have a catcher’s mitt either. For some reason, however, they did have a chest protector in his size. Since baseball is a new experience, he should probably use the one the team shares—until we know that he’s really committed to the position—but he wanted it and I caved.
Then, just as we were about to leave the store and head home, the torrential rains of Tuesday night hit Midtown big time. I wanted to go home; he wanted to go to Subway down the block. Sports Authority happened to have $4 ponchos. We put them on, and got soaked anyway as we raced to Subway.
We got home close to 9pm. I felt like we had a pretty good midweek father-son adventure; Adam came away with a good haul for his budding catcher career, and a stopover to eat his favorite hero; and I got to be a dad and enjoy his company.
“Time for bed, Adam,” I announced soon after we arrived home.
He immediately started ranting about how unfair it is that his sister gets to stay up later. I held my ground, and then, quite earnestly and upset, he reminded me again of how unfair I am.
“You never do anything for me,” he huffed.
I wish I could say that I quietly reminded him about the night we just had, but I wasn’t all that quiet about it.
It’s like this a lot these days, lots of whining tinged with pain of unfairness. There’s also a good deal of rudeness and inconsideration. And, yes, there’s the joy.
I’m trying to be a reasonable, calm, and loving adult, figuring out which battles to pick, and when to let him be his eight-year-old self without complaint from his father. But there are times when I feel like maybe I should put on that chest protector.
Eric Messinger is Editor of New York Family. He can be reached at [email protected]
