Wee-Wee Blues

It must be tough to be two years old.

You don't get to do what you want, and it must seem arbitrary that Dad won't give you ice cream for breakfast. For some reason, crying about it won't help.

You don't get to go where you want, even if it's to "work" after finding your phone and bag and unlocking the front door.

You don't get to say what you want either. My daughter seems to want to express a lot of complicated sentences for which doesn't have the words, because sometimes long sentences tend to trail off into frghihgnnnglatsss.... Daddy!

But there is one advantage to being two. When you have to go potty, the world stops just for you.

A two-year old's ability to plan ahead is about as myopic as Mr. Magoo wearing horse blinders. Most people have an innate understanding that the two year old that says she needs to go potty needs to do so RIGHT AT THIS SECOND. There is NO TIME TO WAIT.

For example, we were all at the Post Office mailing a care package to The Doctor. I was addressing the package, counting my lucky stars at how easy this errand had been to accomplish. Then my daughter spotted a door.

Let me elaborate: this was a door, like any other door. We were in a Post Office. Post Offices have doors. They lead to rooms. This door was like any door you have seen at any Post Office anywhere. It's a door. Thank you for allowing me to paint you a word picture of the door.

My daughter announces that she needs to go potty.

Uh-oh. I look around, no restroom signs. Not good.

"Are you sure? It doesn't look like there's a potty here..."

"Yes there is, Daddy, RIGHT THERE." My daughter points at the door.

Now I understand. The door LOOKS like it MIGHT lead to a potty. That reminded my daughter that she needed to USE the potty. We won't make it home.

I proceed to the first open clerk. "Hi, I have a package to send. Also, my two-year old..."

A note to parents: ALWAYS specify the age of the child for which you are requesting help. The younger, the more likely clerks and bureaucrats might help. They don't have to. Always remember that.

"...says she needs to use the potty. Is there one available?"

"No, I'm sorry."

At least I got some sympathy. I have no other choice, though, so I need to go for broke.

"There's nothing for employees? I'd prefer not to go home in a wet car seat."

"It's against regulations... Lemme check with the manager..."

I wait. The manager comes from somewhere and speaks to the clerk. The clerk opens the door to the secure rear of the Post Office.

I start preparing my daughter. "OK, we're going to go..."

The manager interrupts. "Not you, just her."

Oh. I'm in an immediate bind here. My daughter just started going potty all by herself. I'm not 100% certain that she's going to manage it in a strange environment. Plus, metal images of headlines stating "IDIOT FATHER LETS STRANGER TAKE DAUGHTER" start flashing through my head. But again, I don't have much of a choice. I ask the clerk her name.

"OK, you go with Miss Anne, she'll take you to the potty."

My daughter jumps out of the stroller, froofs up her princess dress once and proceeds with the Post Office clerk to the employees' potty. Miss Anne is not smiling.

I can keep an eye on my daughter while she goes to the potty, if I stand just so, angling my field of vision past the counter. Letting my daughter go off with some stranger makes me nervous, but luckily I can see everything that goes on, up until the moment my daughter goes into the bathroom by herself. My paternal instinct kicking in, I'm ready to leap over the desk and commit several violations of federal regulations if my daughter doesn't come out in two minutes.

Then the manager asks me, "she can do everything herself, right?"

"Oh, sure." I try to take all dubiousness out of my voice, but I don't think I did as good a job as I should have.

Miss Anne returns a moment later with my smiling daughter. By this time, Miss Anne is smiling, too. My daughter can charm anyone. Even postal clerks.

Mental note: Daughter must go potty TWICE before leaving house. Also, daughter must not look at doors ever again.

Actually, The Second Week Was Tougher

All set to start my first week alone with the kids, I was hoping to fall into a routine right away. It would be good for all three of us. So I drop both kids off on Monday, and that's when the wheels came off the wagon.

My son was sent home that day with a high fever. The school won't let him back in for at least twenty-four hours. So I have to keep him home Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday he seems well enough to return, and the school sends my daughter home with a fever.

She had been complaining about "sand in her ears." I thought that possibly she was telling stories, like the rocks up her nose. But no, the doctor (not The Doctor, she's still away) looked inside my daughter's ears. Sure enough, ear infection.

So I had to keep my daughter home Wednesday and Thursday. With my son improving and my daughter on antibiotics for a day, I try to bring them both to school on Friday.

Around lunchtime, the school calls me. My son doesn't have a fever, but he has been irritable and has been pulling at his ears. Great.

So I go to collect him, to get his ears checked. On the way out the door, they stop me.

"We just checked your daughter's temperature..."

Of course. Two sinus infections. Two courses of antibiotics. Two kids that want to be held at the same time. One tired and frustrated daddy, looking forward to a weekend with two sick kids.

Anything but routine. Guess I didn't ask for the routine week properly.

The Doctor has her routine, though. Now she knows FIVE ways to choke an enemy. Don't say they don't teach you anything at combat training.

A Woman Who Knows What She Wants

My daughter's daycare separates the children into age groups. For almost a year now, my daughter's been in the 2 to 3 year room. Once a child reaches 3, that child is transferred to the "preschool" section of the daycare. My daughter was so impressed by the older kids when she first arrived, she immediately began to copy them. Soon, she was telling The Doctor and me about her friends in daycare, mentioning them by name.

Sadly, all of my daughter's close friends have moved on to preschool. The ones left are much younger and the majority of them remain in diapers.

Every morning now begins with the lament, "Daddy, I don't want to go to school. I want to go to preschool." I can't control when they move her. It's dependent on her age and availability. So I tell her that it's going to be several weeks more, sweetie, but you'll be in preschool very soon.

"Yesterday, I want preschool?" I think she means "tomorrow."

"Soon, sweetie. You'll be with your friends again soon. But not today."

Sometimes I get a demand at this point. Sometimes I get drama. Most often the topic of conversation moves on. Yesterday, I got this:

"Oh, no preschool?"

"Not today, but soon."

"I want to go to the beach! We going to the beach? I want BEACH!"

We drove six hours to Santa Monica. Her friends were waiting there, too.

If Only This Blog Went Mach 1

Needless to say, living on a military base means the military is a constant presence in your life, and that presence is a priority. Reminders that your priorities as a civilian are secondary are both subtle and gross. Whether it's the armed guards at the entrance to the base or the checkout lines at stores that give priority to those in uniform, I know that no one will afford me any unique accommodations during my stay here, because my presence here is only due to The Doctor's presence.

But I hear the planes taking off every night. They rattle the windows. They set off car alarms. They cause the neighborhood dogs to break out into a chorus of howls. Surely living with such inconvenience is worth something, no?

I'm not asking for all that much, really. Sometime, somewhere, if conditions are right and everyone is willing, given that I see them everyday and they occasionally disturb my children, I would like the chance to ride in an F-16.

The military calls this an "incentive flight." If Stephen Colbert can do it, why can't I?

So I asked someone who works on the flight line how I go about getting an incentive flight.

"You want an incentive flight?"

"I sure do. Who do I talk to?"

"Are you famous?"

"Um, no?"

"Then you should forget it."

Drat.

So clearly I need to become famous and therefore important enough to grant an incentive flight. I therefore welcome my eighth follower of this blog, and I hope she can bring many more, as I'm going to need a few more followers if I am to credibly assert that I am an internet celebrity.

I can taste that incentive flight already.