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Toddler Next
Door
By Susan Olling
If every day’s a new adventure when you’re a toddler, according to Mr.
History, our little neighbor has been having quite a few
adventures. Oliver’s tall for his age: two-and-one-half but wears
clothing for four-year-olds.
When he first started to make intelligible sounds, Oliver learned to
say “fork”. Well, he meant an eating utensil. However, the
“r” sound was missing, so it sounded like a not-so-nice word.
When adults laughed, he just kept saying it. After all, these old
people thought he was funny.
Our little neighbor doesn’t talk to strangers much. Yet.
That’s OK, when he does start talking to everyone in sight, the mute
button in his programming will be disabled. Probably much to the
dismay of his mom and dad.
Oliver was helping his dad wash their vehicle and had a wonderful time
with the hose. Mr. History was out and noticed that His Eminence
had not one but two black eyes. Earlier in the week, he
used the living room couch as a trampoline, slipped, and did a face
plant into the coffee table. Ouch. Hit his nose (not
broken) with the black eyes as a result. This kid knows how to
play for sympathy. He brightened up when Mr. History asked him if
mommy made the booboo better. “Yes”, with a grin.
I’d been on the computer one evening and decided that, since it was
dark, I should probably close the living room curtains. What a
surprise: a large ladder truck had snuck down to our end of the
street. Backward. And quietly. Didn’t even hear the
engine Idling. Grandma was holding Little Neighbor (he was
holding his Kermie), and his mom was standing with them. No sign
of a fire. I didn’t go out to investigate further, just
watched. This long-time member of the C/MHDNNA (Chestnut/Meem
Historic District Nosy Neighbor Association—we had neighborhood watch
before the signs went up) saw no need to embarrass Mrs. Neighbor.
Later we found out that Oliver was playing with the doorknob, which had
a lock in it, and locked himself in his bedroom. (The previous
owner of the house put doorknobs with locks on all the bedroom
doors. When he moved out, he didn’t leave keys.) Oliver’s
parents didn’t see the need to do anything all these years until His
Eminence got curious. His mom called a locksmith and was told
that she should call 911 because of the age of the person on the other
side of the door. Oliver was understandably most upset: sticking
his fingers under the door, crying, and wanting mommy hugs. Until
he saw the flashing lights outside his bedroom window (“fire
truck”). Instant quiet. The firefighters assured his mother
that they got kids out of all sorts of things and offered suggestions
for replacement doorknobs. The firefighters took progressively
larger tools into the house to get the door open. Mom sent a text
to dad, all upper case, about changing all the doorknobs the next
day. The in-laws weren’t going to leave until dad got home
from work—afraid mom would go into labor. I rather think staying
was Grandma’s idea. Grandpa was a Marine officer in
Vietnam—not likely to get excited these days (but he does look like he
could still give orders). Grandpa was inside taking the offending
doorknob out of the door. The next morning, Oliver said “door broken”
when he saw his bedroom door. He’d apparently forgotten being
trapped. See also the first sentence of this piece.
He has a new job these days: being a big brother. Oliver
understood he was getting a little brother, but he had a harder time
realizing that little brother would be living with them. When
baby brother first came home, Oliver asked when his mom and dad were
going to take little brother back to the hospital and return
him. These days, though, Big Brother likes to help push the
stroller.
Mr. History’s really cool, according to two-and-one-half-year-olds: he
has a motorcycle (I’m just the old lady who lives with Mr.
History). One recent day, the three boys were coming back from a
walk. The bike was at the end of our driveway when they were
coming up the street. One of the boys was giving the trike a long
look and wanted to watch it for a while. But daddy said it was
lunch time. Mr. History knows how he can recycle his HOG
magazines: take them next door. Oliver was quite happy to get a
magazine about motorcycles. Every night, the two big boys look at
the magazine. Getting ideas, no doubt, not that Oliver needs any
more.
His dad will be going to FLETC in a few weeks. In case Mrs.
Neighbor needs a break from Number One Son, Mr. History is willing to
volunteer to push the little guy on his swing.
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