Life heats up with another kid around ~ January 9, 1986

David Heiller

When people live in the country, and have a young family, they welcome the chance to have playmates for their kids. So neither Cindy nor I objected at all to the request from some friends to take one of their three sons while Mom and Dad got away for two days of kid-less joy and skiing last weekend.

My wife and I both think it is good for our son and daughter to be with other boys and girls their own age for all the obvious reasons that most parents list: they learn to share, they can express themselves on another level with their peers, they can play together. Maybe they can even stay out of Mom and Dad’s hair.

Noah and his firetruck

Of course, experienced parents also know that these lofty goals don’t always show themselves in obvious ways. Things like fire trucks get in the way. Noah’s new fire truck, for example. He got it from his Grandpa for Christmas. This truck has two parts, a cab section measuring 15½ inches, and a ladder section, 23½ inches long. Included are three ladders, each with 16 rungs, and a crank which lifts one high into the air. Some small town fire departments would pay good money to have a truck like this, but toy companies know that only Grandpas can afford them.

When our friends dropped Matt off Saturday morning his eyes opened like moons when he saw that truck. He jackknifed it out of the corner with all the skill of a three year old, and was heading for an imaginary four alarm inferno in the middle of the living room, when Noah strode onto the scene. Two words sprang out of his two-year-old mouth, two words that have since etched themselves in my mind: “No, mine.”

“You have to share, Noah,” I reminded him. He has heard the word before.

“Oh, share,” he repeated, in a voice Richard Nixon used for some of his deleted expletives.

Matt moved forward to the fire. “No, mine,” Noah said again, moving to the front of the truck and shouldering Matt out of the way.

“I had it first,” Matt said, looking to me for verification. I looked at Cindy for verification.

“Noah, you have to share,” Cindy said. I wanted to remind her that I had just said that sentence, with no effect. But repetition worked, either that or the Mother Authority in Cindy’s voice. Noah backed off, and Matt put out his fire until it was Noah’s turn.

Matt and Noah

This scenario repeated itself more than once over the next 36 hours. The fire truck, the Mickey Mouse puzzle, the plastic chain saw, the cup of hot chocolate, the broken piece of plastic pipe, all became cherished treasures to Noah with Matt on the scene. Sometimes Noah would give in, or Matt would. Once neither one did, when the yelling went up an extra notch, and four hands clutched the blue Wuzzle tape recorder in a standoff. I stood there helpless, not knowing who had rights to it, till Cindy swept me aside in Mother Authority and said, “If you two can’t share, then I’ll have to take it from both of you.” Which she did. I never would have thought of that.

Despite all these Fisher-Price inspired struggles, Matt and Noah did mesh on occasion. I took them outside Saturday afternoon, and pulled them on the sled. They both agreed that I should pull faster, and run down the road with them, and spin them around and bounce them. They both agreed that I should pull them on a tour of the Clubhouses in our yard, namely the abandoned truck topper, the garden shed; and the sauna. They agreed to sleep on the floor in sleeping bags together, side by side, whispering and giggling in kid confidence as all kids have slept in sleeping bags and whispered and giggled.

The greatest meeting of the minds came with the sauna. I sometimes ask myself why I built a sauna, when we don’t have an indoor bath in the first place. But with Matt and Noah, I remembered why. Noah sat in his small tub on the top bench, while Matt got the larger tub on the low bench. I moved between setting a fine example by pouring hot water over my head and chest, rubbing myself with a pumice stone, splashing water onto the hissing stove, working myself into the frenzy that it takes to do what every honest sauna person does in the fresh fallen snow.

Noah and Matt playing in the snow.

Noah and Matt scoffed at first, in the way little kids do. They sat in their own tubs, and said things like, “This is my tub, you stay in your tub, okay?” When I poured water on their backs they said, “No, don’t like that,” but not quite as convincing as “No, mine.”

“All right,” I said. “I want you guys to watch me.” I moved to the door of the sauna. They sat in their tubs. “Come on, I want you guys to watch this.” Noah climbed down first, then Matt followed. I opened the door, cold and steam rushing in, as I rush out to a glistening patch of untouched snow.

I belly flopped down, then spun onto my back. I remember yelling and screaming and thinking, “I hope the neighbors don’t think anything is wrong,” then I ran back into the sauna and slammed the door behind me. As I yelled with cold and glee, Matt and Noah joined in. They weren’t quite sure what they were yelling about. But they had just seen a grown man dive naked into a snow bank. I guess that was enough reason to yell in itself.

From that point on, the sauna was all downhill. Noah climbed into Matt’s tub, I poured water on both of them, we all threw water on the stove, and even when Matt burned his hand on the stove door, the tears were quickly forgotten. We were having too much fun.

Matt left on Sunday. He probably still remembers the sauna, and sharing (or not sharing), just like Noah does. Dad remembers them too, and wonders when they should babysit again—or have another baby.