Living With a Wild Thing

Toddler tantrums, diaper sprints, and the chaos of my little zoo

Sometimes my house doesn’t feel like a home so much as a zoo. And the loudest, rowdiest animal isn’t the dog — it’s the toddler. Take diaper changes, for example — the moment he sees one, the chase begins.

He takes off down the hallway like a cheetah on wobbly toddler legs. Once I finally wrestle him into place, the pajamas are a different battle: he flops back onto the couch and slithers out of my arms like a snake. One second he’s in my hands, the next he’s gone, wriggling free like it’s his favorite party trick.

When we finally slump on the couch, “relaxing” lasts about fifteen seconds before he’s climbing me like a human jungle gym. I’ve said it more times than I can count: you are not a monkey; I am not a playground.

Mealtimes are a nature documentary. He pinches peas and kernels of corn between forefinger and thumb like a baboon picking fleas — pick, pick, pick. Hate your food? Spit it like a llama. Done with your drink? Chuck it to the floor. Civilization is optional in my kitchen.

I walk in through the garage after work to thunderous galloping from upstairs and brace for a stampede of horses, only to find my 28-pound two-year-old making all that racket. And the tantrums — the screams that rip through the house — don’t sound human; they’re something bigger and older, a wild-animal howl that vibrates your teeth.

Sometimes I feel like a zookeeper. A very tired zookeeper. The difference is I don’t get hazardous-duty pay, and the animals sleep in my bed some nights.

It’s a good thing I’ve always liked animals.