Marital mines and toddler tantrums

Husband-and-wife journalists Bob Miller and Callie Clark Miller use this space to offer their views on everyday issues.

HE SAID

Eventually, two things are going to happen that will pull us back toward sanity. One, the crying and whining will stop. And, two, we will sell our house. In the meantime, Callie and I are collectively doing the research on a cutting-edge case study that will, if things don't change, provide plenty of material for the case workers at the mental institution. I think there's one of those in Farmington, Mo.

Dawson, 22 months old, is reaching the age known as the terrible twos. As such, the world ends approximately every 27 minutes. And when it does, he emits a half-hearted cry and crumbles on the floor as if he were a fair maiden in too much distress. He's also climbing on top of things he shouldn't climb on and reaching things almost seven feet from the floor.

Then there's Eli, 7 months old, who isn't crawling but can scoot and roll from one end of the room to another in approximately 27 seconds. He is playing more but starts fussing when he gets bored with his toys.

Keeping the boys entertained is essential. Dawson is getting better at entertaining himself, but he does not spend much time with any one particular toy, thus the need to drag out and dump every block, truck and toddler gadget we own.

So, on a daily basis, Dawson's room and our living room becomes a foot-poking land mine that provides plenty of explosives from Mom and Dad.

Imagine the scrambling that occurs when we get the phone call at 6 p.m. that someone wants to see our house the next morning. Forget supper. Get the boys fed. We can eat in the morning.

Our routine turns into one of those old black-and-white comedies, the ones where the film is sped up to portray comical chaos. If someone were to stumble upon us during those moments, they might laugh at the absurdity. They would be doing so at their own risk, however.

Anyway, we're always behind at house work, which is mostly my fault. Callie is one of the most efficient people I know. I don't like to work much when I'm supposed to be resting at home. Because of this, we're consistently behind on the laundry and other chores.

So far, we've had good traffic come through our house. So much so, that we can no longer count on two hands the number of times we've unscrambled our house.

We don't expect the whining and crying to stop for at least three or four years. But the house has got to sell soon. If not, we'll be paying rent in Farmington.

SHE SAID

I am close to losing it, for sure. This weekend, after going down to the basement laundry and seeing clothes piled up, I snapped.

"How is it," I asked Bob, "that I have managed to do eight loads of dishes this weekend and you have managed to wash one load of laundry?"

I'll say this for Bob, he has good instincts when it comes to marital warfare. He knows when to engage and when to retreat.

Just when I think I have a good schedule down with the boys, one that allows me to keep the house fairly neat, keep the boys fed, watered and washed, and simultaneously keep my job, one of them changes and throws a wrench in the whole thing.

This time, it's Dawson. No more leisurely twice-a-day naps for my toddler that allow me to catch up on work and maybe take a shower. And if the ball doesn't roll the way Dawson expects it to, or if his blankie gets snagged on the corner of the couch -- Danger: Collapsing Boy; Please Take An Alternate Route.

This can't possibly go on much longer. Can it?

Callie Clark Miller writes for special publications of the Southeast Missourian who dreams of once-a-day showers. Bob Miller is Southeast Missourian editor who limps from stepping on too many child mines. Reach them at cmiller@semissourian.com and bmiller@semissourian.com.