Tales from the naughty step

The great thing about fatherhood, wrote Michael Chabon (and as a Pulitzer Prize winner, I expect he knows what he's talking about), is that the bar is set so hilariously low and in my experience, it's (mostly) true. Dads get extra credit and the 'what a good father!' comments simply for being seen with kids who are somewhat healthy and happy, even if you're dragging them around in mismatched shoes and in desperate need of a good wash.

 

It would be nice to get that sort of goodwill again.

 

I used to be that dad. I used to be better than that, even. Somewhere on my laptop I have photographic evidence of outings that, on more than one occasion, they sat in cafés smiling over strawberry smoothies or quietly read books, watched cartoons and played football in the garden with little or no screaming.

 

Then the terrible twos happened.

 

Now I'm the guy you see chasing a maniacal toddler shouting "get back here!" like Officer Dibble chasing Top Cat, all the while he either thinks "Ha! This is great fun I'm having with Daddy!" or "Freedom! Sweet, sweet freedom from the tyranny of naps!"

 

Frequently I'm the guy pushing that same toddler, screaming from the seat of the supermarket trolley demanding treats or the eggs I just put in the trolley will be flung at the nice old lady browsing cheese. The howls, shrieks and roars make it sound like you're pushing an ambulance full of banshees through the cooked meats aisle. That's when you get the look.

 

You know the look. You might have given it yourself, but if you've been through what I just described you've definitely been on the receiving end of it. The strangers who don't understand (or the ones with kids who have, apparently, always been nothing but angels – liars, I call them) and wonder why you don't just give the kid something to shut them up so they can shop in peace.

 

But you must resist. You must be strong. Ignore the voice in your head that tells you: "one packet of Smarties and this all goes away." Give them an inch, you tell yourself, and they'll take a mile, the car and the neighbour's Blu Ray player. Suddenly the money you'd earmarked for their college books and J1 flights looks alarmingly like bail money.

 

Mr. Terrible Twos is now Mr. Threenager, so he's decided that tantrums don't need to be confined to the supermarket nor do they need to be solo efforts. Sneak attacks on his big brother (who's not exactly renowned for his patience either) are the order of the day at home, and inevitably devolve into fisticuffs, thrown toys and swift justice, naughty step style.

 

This is my second time around this particular block so I know that this too shall pass. Sooner or later, and I can see signs of it already, he'll be that little bit more reasonable – not perfect, because a) he's still a kid and b) who among us is? But still, a little more patient. And then I only have to do the terrible twos and threes one more time. I don't know if I'll miss them, but I know I'll look back and laugh.

 

Anyway – just one more time. But girls are easier, right?

 

No, I didn't think so.

 

John Madden is a freelance designer, writer and dad from Dublin. You can find him on Twitter as @johnmadden78.

 

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