My Terrible Twos and Threes

(Excerpt from "God Forbid..." book)


During my terrible twos and tumultuous threes, Mom discovered gray hairs popping up all over her head. One contributing factor might have occurred when I reached the age of two. I watched in amazement as Mom cooked eggs for breakfast. I wondered how that gooey stuff could turn into an edible delight. But I wasn’t the kind of child who let it go at that.

I wasn’t allowed to use the stove, so I carefully carried an egg from the ice box into the dining room, sat cross-legged on the floor, and then cracked it into the floor’s electrical outlet. It bubbled and spat at me. What a mess, but it cooked! And, yes, a spanking followed. And, no! I don’t really remember this. My older sisters told this story repeatedly, even while I plugged my own children’s ears.

Around the same age, I recall being egged on by much of the same gang to burn a dead bird in a bonfire. This time, I remember it vividly and, no, I wasn’t caught, but I’ll never forget that pungent odor. In my zest to impress and be accepted, I often fell prey to the older kids’ dares.
Sometimes, the neighborhood children had nothing to do with my impish behavior. At three again—and this is pieced together from others’ accounts as well as what I remember—I stood on the dining room chair on my tip toes and dialed my mother’s phone number at work:

“Hi, Mom… Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to bother you at work, but… Huh? No, nothin’s wrong, that is, everything’s okay now… No, you don’t have to come home. But Mom, I was just trying to light the stove and the match burned my finger and I sorta’ dropped it in the wastebasket. So, when I saw the smoke, I ran next door and the neighbor ran over and grabbed the wastebasket and… Huh? No, the babysitter had to run home for a minute.”
“Okay, Mom, but you should have seen Mrs. Bender running out the back door with that flaming basket… Yeah, she’s fine… Huh? I’m okay… What? Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to light the stove, but… Huh? No, the house is fine… Okay, I promise, but, Mom, you might wanna pick up a new wastebasket on your way home.”

Believe me, I didn’t play with matches again, at least not for a couple of years. Besides, I think it was simply my nature to get into mischief. I had to discover things for myself. To that end, I’ll fess up. I am responsible for most of Mom’s gray hairs.