THE TERRIBLE TWOS
A loud crash echoes through the kitchen. My mother has become accustomed to this daily chaos. The pitter-patter of wobbly footsteps follow from the noise. Marlena runs into the living room, hiding her proud smile behind her pacifier.
"Marlena, stay out of the kitchen!" My mother yells. She must've knocked something over. She is always keeping us busy one way or another, especially when I am babysitting her (because seriously, who thinks of their sister as an actual authority figure?).
The one rule my family has established with my two-year-old sister is that if she is being quiet, it usually means that she is up to something. Sadly, I became a believer of this theory after experiencing it first hand while watching over her.
It was late in the afternoon on a hot and sticky July day. I was planted on the couch, flipping through every single channel on the TV, hopelessly bored. Then as if on cue, Marlena happily stumbled out of her bedroom and made her way to the couch. I decided to ignore her and continued to stare straight at the TV. I am always her favorite person to annoy.
Marlena finds great humor in herself when she is in the way, disobeying, or just being plain irritating. So, in hopes that she would give up and walk away, I kept my mouth shut even though she was standing directly in my view. I tried to subtly move my head to the right to see what show was on. Marlena giggled as drool dripped down the corner of her mouth from sucking on her pacifier. She moved in front of my face again. Without a reaction, I tilted my head slightly towards the left. Again, she giggled and mirrored my movements. This routine continued for about ten more minutes. At which point, Marlena began hysterically laughing at me and I was finally fed up. She's lucky she's cute, otherwise I'd have trapped her in her room by then. After realizing defeat, I turn off the TV out of frustration, and also to end this unintentional game. Then with a triumphant smile, Marlena quickly retreated back into her bedroom; her diaper making a soft, swishing sound with each stride.
Since Marlena finally left me alone, I decided to use this as an opportunity to set up the Nintendo Gamecube. I pulled it out from underneath the TV stand, wiped off a little bit of dust, and unraveled the controller from its entangled wires. After plugging it in, I pushed down on the ‘Power' button and the Super Smash Bros. title screen appeared on the TV. However as soon as I begin playing, my mother decided that it was a good idea to start trying to talk to me. Of course she had to pick now instead of a half-hour ago, when I wasn't doing anything.
"Samantha, I need you to keep an eye on Marlena for me while I'm in the shower." My eyes stayed glued to the TV and my thumbs continued button-mashing the controller.
"Mhm," I thoughtlessly responded.
"Samantha, did you hear me? You're in charge of her for the next twenty minutes," she continued. All I could think of was how I wanted her to stop talking while I was playing, it was too distracting to half pay attention to both things.
I tuned her out and responded with, "Okay, Mom." The game was at one of its most crucial and important moments. I guess my mom came to terms with the fact that she wasn't getting through to me any more than she already had, and went into the bathroom.
After the battle had ended, I figured it would be a good idea to check on Marlena before starting another round. I tip-toed down the hallway and heard her tiny, high-pitched voice commentating her actions as she played with her toys. Perfect, I thought, she's entertained. Feeling better about the Marlena situation, I headed back into the living room and plopped back down on the couch to continue my game.
I'm not quite sure where the rest of the world got left behind, but I became completely engrossed in the game. I couldn't even tell how many rounds were played. Marlena hadn't made any sounds or cried at all, so I never expected there to be anything wrong.
After what I thought was a short while later, I heard the squeak of the back door opening. "Hello!" My Aunt Jenny called out as she entered the kitchen. I unintentionally ignored her as she passed through the living room. However, my trance was finally broken when I heard my aunt scream. I whipped my head to the right to see what was going on. My heart sank down to my stomach and I could feel all color drain from my face. I am going to be in so much trouble.
I hurried over to Marlena's play kitchen, next to my aunt. Shock overwhelmed me as I tried to make sense of what was happening. Attached to Marlena's play kitchen was a built-in highchair (for baby dolls). Marlena had managed to wedge her body, and chubby thighs, into each foot hole of the toy highchair. My Aunt Jenny tried to pull her out, but the baby fat on Marlena's thighs kept her wedged in the chair. Together, we tried again to pull her, but Marlena started to cry as we tugged on her little body.
Panic began to rise through me. What if we can't get her out? What if she is hurt? Will she be okay? I looked into Marlena's eyes. They were wide and wet with tears. For a moment (a vengeful moment) I thought, good maybe she'll stop getting into trouble for once. My aunt then asked where my mother was, with urgency coating her voice.
"She's in the bathroom," I muttered absentmindedly. She quickly scurried to the bathroom and began knocking on the door. A tear had begun to form in the corner of my eye as I stared at my completely helpless little sister. It then pushed past my lashes, falling over my eyelid and rolling down my cheek, leaving a trail in its path.
My mom ran down the hallway in her robe. "Samantha!!" Her voice was piercing, but I knew I deserved it. I stood motionless as my mom and Aunt Jenny hovered over Marlena, frantically discussing what they should do. Marlena started to cry again. The room was so loud that the usual daily dose of chaos had been brought to the extreme. Everything became background noise and blended together as guilt continued to consume me. I couldn't believe I let her get stuck in that stupid play kitchen.
In the midst of all of the craziness, my dad arrived home from work. As soon as he entered the house, everyone spit out their own version of what was going on. He didn't say anything at first, and walked over to Marlena. He then kissed her on top of her head and promised to get her out of the highchair. He was always so skilled at staying calm in these abnormal situations. My dad turned and headed toward the front porch. My mom instinctively followed and began questioning his plan of action.
He re-entered the room with a miniature handsaw. My eyes grew wider as I watched my dad walk over to Marlena to begin the process of freeing her. "Marlena, you have to stay really still so that I can get you out," he instructed. Following that, my mom and dad both lifted the play kitchen on either side and laid it down so that Marlena was laying on her back, facing up. Marlena continued to cry and small tears left streaks down her chubby cheeks. I stood to the side with my Aunt Jenny, waiting and hoping for the best. Slowly my dad put the blade on the inner leg hole of the highchair, facing away from Marlena's thigh. The delicate procedure felt as though it took forever. Time stopped as we all stared and waited in suspense.
The plastic made a loud crack when the blade broke through. Marlena immediately moved her leg and it was freed. There was a thin, red line circling Marlena's thigh, where the hole was constricting her. About fifteen minutes later, my dad snapped the other half of the highchair and Marlena was finally free. He quickly picked her up and began to hug her along with my mom, planting plenty of reluctant kisses on her tiny forehead.
Of course after all the happiness of Marlena's safety wore off, I was grounded (for what seemed like forever) and became the butt of most jokes for a while. This event had made me finally realize that if a two-year-old is being quiet, they are certainly up to something. For the whole year following the incident, Marlena continued to relay the news to anyone she came in contact with. She repeated it as if she were parrot. "Daddy cut me out of the highchair." Any time she would tell someone while I was with her I would turn a bright, glowing red; the obvious color of a guilty and embarrassed babysitter. However, I'm not too worried. The day will come where there is a moment embarrassing enough to hold over her head as well.
