Getting Spanked

I’m getting spanked. And, no, not in the way one might enjoy getting spanked if one didn’t have an ass that slaps back. I’m getting spanked by my two-year-old. Who, incidentally, is exhausting me to the point that the possibility of sex and spanking happening on any given night is nearly impossible. But I digress…

My first two kids are 14 months apart. When they were twos and threes I had my nose all up in the parenting books. I had mastered the 1-2-3 Give Them The Look And Presto They’ll Do What You Say technique. I don’t remember needing to give them time-outs.

Sadly I have been lulled by the gentle rhythms of the older kids’ latency years and am now find myself getting a smack down from the third child, Mr. T.

How, exactly, do you parent a two-year-old asshole?

He’s not really an asshole. Yes he is. No he’s not. Yes he is.



Last week I had a small operation. I am not to lift anything over 10 pounds for the next few weeks. I sit Mr. T down and explain that I have a “owie” that prevents me from doing “up-poo” for a while, but that he’s a big boy and can walk.

Note: This child doesn’t like his feet to touch the ground for too long. He likes to preserve energy so there is always be just enough to wreak havoc when necessary.

On our first post-surgical outing we go to the library after preschool. Mr. T is in a good mood. I tank him up with some cookies food. He gets out of the car all by himself and marches into the Rec Center that houses the library. As soon as we get inside he looks at me, smiles and takes off running past the library, down the hall, and all the way to the vending machines.

After pulling him off the machine luring him back down the hallway and into the library we settle in to read books. Another child and her mother show up and everything is peaceful until I say Okay, five more minutes and then it’s time to go home for lunch.

Note: The other child is well-behaved, listens to her mother, not attempting to climb the stacks or yelling LODEEDODEEDODEEDOOO at the top of her lungs. And her mother is well coiffed.

Alarmed that his library time is being cut short, Mr. T’s revs up. His eyes dilate. I am physically powerless. There will be no scoop the child and run.

I play puppets!

Grunt, grunt.

A foul smell wafts through the air.

The other mother looks up.

I shake my head and mouth It’s my kid.

Grunt, grunt.





(Translation: I do not sit in my own feces. Remove this offensive garment immediately or I will do so myself.)

The other mother and child exit scene.

Sadly, the diaper bag is not on my person.

Hey, buddy, we need to go home to change your diaper. Let’s go! 

Mr.T throws himself on the floor of the library.



He is corpse-like stiff and I am unable to move him or convince him to follow me. I am at his mercy and he knows it and I have no diapers, no wipes, no strategy.

I look up. No security cameras. I look around. No parents. No children.

With stealth like speed I lift his legs, remove diaper, shove in my bag, pull up his pants.

Boy returns to puppet area. I am aware that at any moment he is likely to urinate on the books.

Okay, guy, we have to go now! There’s yummy food at home and we’re all done at the library. Here we go…

Boy looks at me like a wild animal. Runs to other side of children’s area. I run. He runs. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I think to myself “Seriously? I gave up a career for this shit? I am an asshole. I am chasing a two-year old back and forth in a library. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?” 

In a moment of desperation, humiliation and with the full knowledge that I have lost all hope, I say Well, I guess I’m going to get ice cream all by myself then. See ya! 

That’s how I get him into the car. Without lifting. And with great shame.

So, how exactly do you parent a two-year-old?