The Real Reason Twos Are Terrible

On her second birthday, right on schedule I suppose, my daughter became a suicidal maniac. She darts toward the street, she climbs the deck railing, she dips the toothbrush in the toilet water before sticking it in her mouth. I have aged 10 years in the last two weeks.

People say “terrible twos,” and I say, “Na. It’s not so bad. After three kids, I've got nerves of steel.” Or, that’s what I used to say.

Ava does not sit on the dining room chair. Oh no. She stands, leaning over the back rest, testing the laws of gravity.

She doesn’t hold on while walking down the stairs. On no. She fills both arms with dolls and heads down the center, freestyle.

She doesn’t fear losing mommy in a crowd. In fact, that appears to be her goal. She’s sees an opening and runs, no looking back, no hesitation.

At the Y last week, as I watched Ben finish up his swimming lesson through the glass door, I lost myself in thought for a few seconds. That’s all it took.

“Oh, I saw her go, but I thought you knew so I didn’t say anything,” the woman beside me said.

Yes, my 2 year old’s mature for her age. I let her do her own thing.

I strode down the long hallway, thinking of all the closet and storage room doors I’ve seen open in the place, my stomach dropping with each step. Then I saw them, at the entrance: a cluster of people looking down at the floor. Ava has her hands pressed against the door, pushing, while a woman holding her gym bag and car keys stood above her, looking vaguely confused.

“Stay with Mommy,” I told her. She gave me that look, you know, the one that says, “Yeah, right.”

At the fireworks Tuesday night, Ava again disappeared. We found her within a moment, in a nearby stroller. It took 15 minutes for my heart to regain its normal rhythm.

Wednesday night I couldn’t sleep. I kept dreaming that I had to watch Ava, kept catching glimpses of her running between rooms. At first, I tried deep breathing and repeating the words, “She’s in her crib. She’s safe.” At 4:30 I gave in and went to the kitchen to wash dishes.

Yesterday, Brian was off from work. The skies kept threatening lightening, so we just relaxed around the house. Well, we relaxed. Ava pinged off the woodwork, looking for an escape. Which she found.

At first, I thought nothing of it when she scuttled into the mudroom. But within a second, I was on my feet. As I approached, telltale rays of sunlight splayed across the closet doors. The door to outside was open; Ava was gone.

I found her out on the sidewalk, deciding whether to run across the street to the park or hitch a ride to Boston.

“Never go outside without Mommy! Never!”

“Yes, outside, me,” she yelled into my face, defiant.

“With Mommy!”

“No,” she taunted. “Myself.”

Later that day, as I got the boys a snack, another moment of panic hit. Where is Ava? I haven’t seen her in several minutes! Then I remembered: Brian has her in the basement.

After everything, this non-event brought a sting of tears, my nerves of steel reduced to a pile of quivering live wires. And I realized, this is why they call it “the terrible twos.” And this is why I need a drink, and it’s not even noon.