Most of us point to adolescence as the most troubling time in our lives, but I'm starting to think that's a load of bullshit. Far more vexing are the frustrations of todolescence, the tweener stage in which our intrepid little TwoBert finds himself. Is there a worse situation than being suddenly aware of all the things you can't do that the rest of the family does routinely?
Now at nine months, TwoBert is beset by Gordian knots at every turn. He experiments relentlessly--often spurred on by the question, "Does saliva dissolve this?"--and his mind is no doubt full of trenchant observations of the human condition. He has much to impart about love, conflict, faith, Matchbox cars, and man's search for commitment in a mechanized ethos, but all he can vocalize is "Gaaaah gaaah gaaah [fart noise]." He is a modern-day Cassandra, fruitlessly trying to steer society's ship leeward while the unheeding morons paddle toward the storm.
While he thumps around on all fours, he sees all the bipeds leaping over him to answer the phone or slide a newspaper under the cat before it barfs on the sofa. The best he can do is pull himself vertical on something and wail like a banshee when his brother runs out of the room.
He often yelps from the pain of these white shards that are stabbing their way out of his gumline. Nobody else seems to have this problem as they rip into their meals, which are strangely without breast milk.
Plus, now that wispy hair is starting to reach over his ears, he's starting to look a little like Boss Hogg.
TwoBert, if you ever get the chance to read this someday, please know that I understood. The world is full of bright, cognitive, robust souls trapped in uncooperative bodies. You can draw comfort, at least, knowing that it's only temporary. Before too long you'll be a carnivorous, prancing chatterbox just like the rest of us.
