The Terrible Two's

Growing up can be hard, especially in a big family.

Kamala was the sixth of our seven children. For seventeen months she was the baby, the apple of her daddy's eye, the spoiled little princess, then she was replaced by Krisann, and it was tough; for her and for the rest of the family.

It was exciting when at, eighteen months, Kami was old enough to go to nursery during our church meetings. At first it looked like she was going to love it. She played with the other children, listened to the little stories, and seemed to be doing fine for the first hour, until she started to cry. Her teacher brought her to me when she couldn't get her to settle down.

“I'm sorry, Gale,” she told me as I joined her in the hall outside the Relief Society. “Kami seemed to be doing great, but now I can't get her to stop crying.”

“That's OK, Jill,” I assured her, taking Kami into my arms and trying to comfort her. It seemed to help, and Kami settled down a little, resting her tiny head against my shoulder as I rocked back and forth, patting her back, talking over her head with her teacher.

Our older daughters, Alyssa and Tori, were best friends, and I always enjoyed visiting with Jill, but suddenly Kami started to cry again. I turned her around to try holding her over my arm: when the kids were babies it often helped to rest their tummies on my left arm and snuggle them close. Suddenly she struggled up, gave a great heave, and threw up all over herself, Jill, and me! What a mess! No wonder she had been crying.

It seemed that the “terrible two's” began at about eighteen months in our family. Kami didn't let me down, and had them real good by the middle of the following spring. One day she filled the dryer with soap: you can imagine how much fun that was, trying to shake the powder off all the wet clothes I had loaded in before I realized what she had done. Later that same day she pulled a gallon of milk out of the refrigerator, I suppose she wanted a drink, and poured it all over the floor and broke the glass she was using. The next day, just in case life was getting boring, she poured a gallon of milk on the couch. Yuck!

I know I shouldn't complain, she was actually really cute and even while I was frustratedly cleaning up her messes I was chuckling inside. At least she didn't eat dog food out of the garbage can where it had been thrown away after sweeping it up from the floor like her two-year-old cousin did. He dumped the dog food out in the first place, and then while helping himself to the cleaned up chunks he possibly ate some some rat poison that was also in the trash. My pour sister-in-law had to rush him to the hospital to have his stomach pumped, just in case. Nor did she break open a whole dozen eggs over the heating vents on the kitchen floor, like his twin brothers did a few years later, or pour a gallon of vegetable oil down the stairs to watch the pretty waterfall it created.

Like I said, growing up can be hard, especially in a big family. And living through your children growing up can also be difficult, but never boring.