Our many colored days*

I thought that I could put up the gate in the doorway to Meggie’s room and contain her for a few minutes. I just ran upstairs to get the vacuum cleaner. Apparently, though, I was mistaken because I hadn’t been upstairs for five minutes when I heard the “thump, thump, thump” of Meggie feet on the stairs. She had brought with her a plastic screwdriver and a toy saw. Maybe she thought she should prepare herself in case I tried to fortify the gate.

Turns out she just moved a climbable toy next to the gate and hopped over. I think we’ll have to put away all tablelike toys. Too tempting and too convenient. Don’t think it will stop her, but it may delay her long enough to let me get what I need from upstairs.

This child, this child. She is giving her parents a run for our money this week. I got a “your child” call from Alan while I was at work yesterday. That’s what we do when we’re just flabbergasted by her behavior. Such conversations usually begin, “Your child is in a timeout because…”

Yesterday she refused to cooperate when Alan picked her up from school. She stomped around yelling, "No wanna go home, no wanna go home," and would not get her jacket when told to do so. Then, when Alan went to retrieve it from the other room, she shut the door on him and ran away. This morning, I asked her about it, and she said matter-of-factly, “Yeah, I mean a daddy. I hit daddy. Daddy put me a timeout.” She said she’d be nicer today, but we’ll see.

It’s not the amount of activity that makes toddlers so interesting and exhausting. It’s the intensity of … everything. They know nothing of subtlety and feel and do everything all the way. Their emotional palate is like that first box of crayons you get as a child -- the one with just eight colors, no shades in between. Toddlers love and want things with a burning fire-engine red. And they pursue their desires without wavering. Even after I remove the climbable toys, if she wants to get over the gate, she’ll get over. It’ll just take her longer to build a ramp out of stuffed animals.

Meggie’s sadness is midnight blue. Yesterday, she cried with utter abandon after I confiscated her Fig Newton. She had already been warned that "cookies are for eating, not for drawing on the wall." But she, trying to evade me, slunk around the corner and continued her artwork in secret. But she gave herself away by cooing, “Ooh, thas pretty!” After I took the Newton, she sat down on the floor and commenced weeping a torrent of tears that lasted for several minutes. Finally, whimpering, she laid her head on my shoulder and wailed, “My coooookiiiiiiieee. Oh, my cooooooookiiiieeee” for another minute.

But once the she had completed her mourning, she was happy again. And I don’t just mean content, I mean happy, like sunshine yellow undimmed by a single concern. She asked for “marching music,” so I played a CD of Disney tunes, and she marched around the living room for several songs.

For her, every emotion is wholly unmitigated, one-sided and completely in the moment.

I can’t remember when I felt like that. Growing up teaches us that most things are multifaceted. Life has many sides. Out of tragedy, we glean some good. The yin, the yang, yadda, yadda. But toddlers just don’t see it that way. There are no shadows, only light and dark.

Experience mixes and mutes the shades and teaches us to look for nuances we know are there. I suppose as you get older, the brilliancy of experience is further tempered by age and sometimes by discomfort.

I called my Grandma Costales yesterday. She’s not 2, but 92, and it’s amazing what 90 years of living, loving -- and losing -- will do. I said, “Hi, Grandma, how are you.” “Oh,” she said, “not so good, I am always tired.” This is her usual response, although she's better off than most 92-year-olds. She has company during the day, generally good health and a comfortable place to live. But she likes to spend a good part of her day in reverie. I asked her once, “Grandma, what do you think about when you’re in your room?” She answered without hesitation, “I think about when I was young.”

Maybe nothing ever compares to the strength and purity emotion we feel when we're young. Maybe that’s why Meggie is such a whirlwind and seems to turn everything topsy-turvy. Although she keeps us busy and on the phone saying to each other, “your child…,” life without her would seem monotone and dull. She paints the world red and makes my mornings sunshine yellow. If she were not as she is, we’d be midnight blue.

And so I conclude by saying we hope you have a happy green St. Patrick’s Day and that every day is colorful enough that you’ll be happy someday to sit and remember it.

*With deference to Dr. Seuss, who wrote a Meggie favorite, "My Many Colored Days." And to the Megster, who colors all our days.