The Bizarro World Switcheroo.

What kind of bizarro world are we living in? The bizarro world I refer to is the crazy-upside-down-how-can-this-be world where my wonderful-but-self-admittedly-sometimes-dull Mr. Husband is more exciting than me. How in the world can this be? Aha! Through the eyes of a two-year-old who will be three-years-old in two and a half months—it is not me with the zest, it is Mr. Husband with the care. Our Loaner Son, Brodie, does not want for me to help in any way. He only wants “Deff.” To be honest, my always wanting to teach is totally lame. I admit that now.

Let’s examine the differences between “Hedder” and “Deff”

Deff:
Likes video games.
Loves video games.
Loves to watch Shrek 563 times a week.
Talks in that soft, gentle kid-friendly voice when explaining concepts like loading the dishwasher or washing one’s hands.
Makes lots of sounds with his mouth that enhance any standard activity.
Is incredibly attentive and always in high spirits.
Is at home with child boy who understands him.


Hedder:
Likes books.
Loves books.
Prefers listening to Opera to watching Shrek again.
Believes children should be spoken to and reasoned with like an adult so that they understand that issues, like drawing circles are serious issues that deserve proper care.
Makes lots of sounds that are not with her mouth. Accidental sounds, we’ll say.
Is easily distracted and disappointed when her activity ideas are not received with super enthusiasm that cannot be contained.
Is perplexed by child boy who is confused by her.

Here we find the facts. Mr. Husband is 800x more exciting to a two-year-old than I am. Who knew? I keep coming up with these great ideas for art: crayon drawing depicting ourselves in a challenging moment, creating aprons with puffy paint, making cookies from scratch with silly colors, and deep discussions about why Van Gogh might not have been appreciated in his own time. Why our young Loaner Son cannot appreciate my attempts at excitement baffles me. Here Mr. Husband moves in with a silly word and he’s the star of the show.

I make chicken nuggets, hot dogs, and tater tots. I cut up cheese to make a smiley face on his plate. And, yet, I’m not the exciting one. Mr. Husband swoops in with his chewing with the mouth open and burping and I’m the school marm at the table, asking Loaner Son to eat his carrots.
I was so excited about the aprons and paint. I forced my co-worker Meghan to visit Hobby Lobby with me at lunch yesterday. I felt like I was on the brink of a great, big, jumping, amazing eureka moment. I thought I had it. Surely, Loaner Son will thrill at the thought of painting aprons. Surely, I was sorely mistaken.

First of all, perhaps little boys do not like aprons. Fail. Perhaps it is not ingrained in them—not in his physical make-up to adore the apron and want to paint it with bright colors as a representation of his soul and life thoughts up until now (all two-years-and-ten-months-of-it-with-change). Secondly, little Loaner Son could not get his tiny little hand around the squeeze tube of puffy paint. Fail. I didn’t consider that. I felt like I was doing it for him in order to get color to happen. That wasn’t the idea! Fail. Thirdly, I didn’t imagine that little Loaner Son would be much more concerned with putting the caps back on the puffy paint bottles instead of making a great, big, giant mess with which I could help. Fail. I realize now that I am, officially, unable to think like a two-year-old going on three.

Mr. Husband makes milkshakes. Mr. Husband always has something “cool” to explain in little kid language. Mr. Husband becomes Mr. Comical Comic Man who knows how to relate to a little boy. I am the color brown.

Panic? You betcha. I’m working on popping one of these little creatures out of me within the next year. And I’m the one who is typically invited to the table to add sparkling commentary and comic relief. Ask my friends! This is a bizarro switcheroo. And so I come down to earth and realize that I’m not a hit with all kinds. Dogs like me. Cats love me. People my own age want to friend me. But little boys, they don’t understand me. And I don’t understand them. Perhaps a little boy doesn’t want to be pushed to his ultimate artistic and thought potential. What do I do now? The only suggestion I have in my pocket is that we might want to write an essay about it together. Fail.

I let Mr. Husband take over. I sit and wait on cue. But I do not give up. Tomorrow night: cupcakes. My parents owned a bakery in Hunstville, so I can bake and decorate. I can do that! Little Loaner Son will wear that apron he half painted, and I’ll have some kind of activity to feel like I’m teaching. Maybe this feeling explains my
initial calling to teach English at the college level? I’m friggin’ useless unless I feel like I’m teaching.

Mr. Husband just wants to have a good time. Bizarro world. Totally. And I’m totally lucky to have “Deff” who knows how to hang out with a two-year-old. He doesn’t fail.