Something Will Have to be Done About That Crocodile

Growing up, my favorite book was Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile by Bernard Waber. The illustrations were charming , the story was engaging and to top it off, we had a cassette tape of Mr. Waber reading his book aloud and his slow, careful, slightly adenoidal delivery made the whole thing even better. Lyle is a sweet, congenial soul that never means to cause trouble but when he moves into the New York brownstone of Mr. and Mrs. Primm on East 88th Street, he manages to put the neighborhood in fits. The next door neighbor, cantankerous old Mr. Grumps, whose cat Loretta is routinely terrified by the mere presence of Lyle, wants him sent off to the zoo and repeatedly insists "Something will have to be done about that Crocodile." And after a while, even the loving Mr. and Mrs. Primm realize that "Something will have to be done about that crocodile." Maybe because I remember this book so well (and probably because I rarely come up with my own material) I occasionally use this line when I am faced with some sort of sticky situation with my children that I can't seem to think my way out of.

My 2 1/2 year old Tommy has rather recently morphed into the type of sweet, congenial 2 1/2 year old that caused me to meet Pie at the door the other day, fling my arms around his neck, bury my face in his shoulder and (almost) sob "Something will have to be done about that crocodile!"

So, just what kind of Tommy trouble am I talking about?

Is he refusing all foods except Eggo Waffles and birthday cake?

No.
Throwing complete come-apart temper tantrums?

Thankfully, those days are (mostly) behind us.

Is he making a fuss over going to bed?

Ehhh.

Is he repeatedly hunting out the markers that Sid doesn't properly hide and did he, among other deeds, color all over the front of Pie's new Cherry desk with a purple Sharpie?

Yes, but that's not what is causing me to (nearly) cry.

The real problem is that he is now a fence climbing, heights loving, rope swinging (and prepare to cringe...) poop slinging ZOO MONKEY. I think he's got tricks even the real zoo monkeys haven't figured out yet. Getting out of his room, when I have the door blocked (and thus locked) by a chair. Climbing up the outside of the stairs, and then all the way around the railing several feet off the ground. Climbing up and over the fence. Not to mention climbing up the kitchen cupboards in seconds, climbing into the fridge, and climbing up three rows of shelving in both the pantry and the linen closet. Taking off his clothes. And let's not even discuss his recent inclination to change his own diapers. That topic is best left unbroached.

It is a well-known fact that for my recent birthday, I bought myself a cordless drill for the sole purpose of installing Tommy-proof latches on the exits. (I also installed a bolt on Pie's office door and another bolt on the pantry--which as an added bonus--has dramatically reduced the rampant food-thievery by other little Konchars) You can just imagine how SMOOTHLY this complex system of latches work. There are 6 of us that need to get in and out of these doors, and only one of us that needs to be kept in. It seems like my kids never remember to latch the doors--that is unless I am on the outside needing to get in. Then they are little savants.

So getting back to the other morning, when I nearly had a come-apart myself. I found Tommy yet again climbing around the inside of the stair railing. The numerous times he has done this before have given me ample opportunities for trying out different parenting methods. Indeed, I have tried all the tricks in the Mommy Book: Time outs. More attention. Less attention. Redirecting. Reminding. Ignoring. Imploring. Shaming. Spanking. Overreacting. Underreacting. And even the biggest gun in the mommy arsenal, Losing My Cool. It didn't take. And it is with a certain amount of embarrassment that I admit what happened this last time: I looked at him and quietly said "I don't know why I even hang out with you anymore." Pie arrived on the scene and had complete confidence in my abilities to find a solution that in no way involved him. So I took a little mental health break and ate an ice cream sandwich, for you know, medicinal purposes.

But then my "I'm pretty sure I can outsmart a 2 year old" competitive nature kicked in, and in a burst of MacGyveresque brilliance, I picked up my cordless drill, a handful of screws, one of those padded mattress protectors found in the average linen closet and while wearing my most alluring pj's (the ones with the ducks) and mascara from the day before, I DID IT. I outsmarted that little scallywag, if only for a week or so. In case you are not fully able to appreciate the amazingness of my solution to this problem from the photo below, I made a barrier that keeps him from climbing up the stairs while simultaneously (and this is important here, kids) in no way harming the woodwork. Yes! It is ugly! I don't actually care! Anything to keep that little angel off my railing. Because my entire house is now just a Tommy incident, looking for a place to happen.


It's not that I am unfamiliar with all this monkey business. I am, after all, Josie's mom. I just hadn't planned on this. We moved into the new house, our forever house, when our final baby was 4 months old. At the time, I defiantly declared that I would not be baby-proofing this house. (And in doing so pretty much just waved the red cape in the face of the bull, I acknowledge. Little did I know that I would end up having to create a series of monkey traps resulting in a house that--among many other things--now sports a bungee cord across the fridge.) But how was I to even imagine that my little bundle would grow to be a force as unstoppable as....oh, I don't know, something that is really hard to stop, like, say, gravity, or the ever increasing cost of a gallon of gas or...... Josie? I mean, what were the odds of lightening striking me twice!!

**I should note that we do not currently have any permanent plans to ship Tommy off to the New York Zoo (like Lyle) but a playdate there with the primates is certainly something we are considering. Maybe he could learn some more appropriate behavior.