The tour guide described the chair at the foot of the antique bed as being built in the Queen Anne style. It dates from 1850 and is in great condition for something that old. It’s a more of a love seat really with faded yellow fabric and no tears in the arms. It’s lovely, and that’s why I’m in a full sprint. I nearly knock over our guide and destroy more of Queen Anne’s things.
My three-year-old son has decided that he would like to jump on the chair. And after that, I’m sure he will want to puke on it. In his diary he will write, “Successfully destroyed priceless antique today. Dad has to mow yards of mansions for thirty years to pay it off. Mission accomplished. Tomorrow I invade China and break their famous dishes.”
I’ve had my fill of playgrounds, bouncy houses, and library sit-ins. I can’t take anymore play places or sing-a-longs. So instead, we are taking a tour of the “Mansion On The Prairie.” A house built in the 1850s by some very wealthy individuals. Even now, the house is nowhere near a major intersection.
In a spat of insanity, I thought my love of history would translate well to my toddler. That he would understand that Dad needed an activity that stimulated my mind rather than his. I thought he would be cool.
I’ve made better choices in life.
I grab the boy right before he gets a foot up, and I am thankful that I have kept myself in a state of constant panic. I prayed to as many gods as I could think of, preferring to hedge all my bets. I nurtured the anxiety in my soul because I needed it to keep me sharp. I live in a constant state of fear.
All for the moment when I would prevent my toddler from destroying priceless heirlooms.
“Oh, don’t worry. He can actually sit on that” our tour guide says. “It’s very sturdy. We actually have several pieces that he can sit on.” I smile, but only at her naivety. She’s young and obviously doesn’t see the predicament.
“Yes, sure. He will sit,” I lie.
Toddlers, sit? No, Ms. Guide, toddlers don’t sit. They bounce and jump, they dig teeth into flesh, they smear poop on walls. Those are the things that they do. Toddlers don’t sit. They plan for destruction, take in their surroundings and codify the amount of chaos that can be caused with the least amount of effort.
Perhaps the mirror on the wall across from the chair? That looks very breakable. Let me tell you what my toddler is thinking: he’s thinking that this chair would go really great under that mirror. And once the chair is under it, why, it’s so easy to take the mirror off the wall and smash someone over the head.
That’s what my toddler is thinking.
“How about I sit with him?” I tell her. I lower myself into the chair and it growls. My large frame tests the woodworking skills of a master 150 years dead. Yeah, my kid would have destroyed this.
I’m being careful, and the chair is already making me break out in a cold sweat. My boy fusses on my lap while the tour guide explains the history of this room. What it meant for someone on the prairie to have a house like this. The extravagance of having so many priceless belongings made the original owners stand out in a time when most people traveled by wagon and with cholera.
My son punches me in the nose and tries to slide out of my arms. I lock him in my legs. I hear his teeth chomp at my knee.
I would like to say that my little biting angel here is usually well behaved. But that would be a lie, and as he headbutts me in the crotch, I think we both know it. But he’s my boy, and I love him enough to prevent him from destroying these very expensive antiques and going into a lifetime of debt at such a young age. I check his diaper to make sure he doesn’t have a spoon carved into a prison shank.
The tour continues on, each room providing countless challenges for my boy if only he could get out of my grasp. I listen when I can, ask her to repeat things often, and mentally calculate the value of everything my boy wants to destroy.
I thank her for her patience often, and I assure her that I am really enjoying the tour. I really am. What I can hear of it, this all sounds very interesting.
Prairie life where kids could go play in giant fields and get run over by cows. In the parlor, we learn that the original owners would often greet guests and read from the family bible. My kid makes a beeline for the ancient book, jelly crusted fingers eager to tear pages out and stuff into his mouth. I knee block him and he goes down.
I’m not sure how the tour guide interprets my parenting style. She can’t be more than twenty, at most. To her, there is wonder in this room.
I would agree, but more because it’s a wonder that I’ve made it this far without the police being called. This is extreme parenting; an adrenaline junkies attempt to add a little spice in his life. That spice is a three-year-old hopped up on sugar. The tour guide is polite, but I think she gives me a look when I hip-check my son before he launches himself onto another one of a kind chair.
The tour guide now wants to move to the dining room to show me their collection of silver. She seems very proud of it. I assume that the word “priceless” can again be applied to it. I also assume the word “shiny” can work.
The room is indeed beautiful. I lift my son up to show him all the pretty antiques. I grab his hands before he can get to a silver knife. Sunlight bounces off teapots and platters. I put my son down as the guide tells the story of how bandits once came this way. There was a struggle, gunshots, and a lot of close calls. I’m enthralled by her storytelling.
“Wow, that is amazing. You hear that, Ollie?” I ask my son. I look down at my knee, expecting to see him there.
He is not. Crap.
I hear his laughter bouncing off oak walls, little feet slamming against hardwood floors, and I know that the dream chair is about to get a visitor.
I was afraid before, but not nearly enough.
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Previously Published on Hossman at Home
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ID: 708717688