Some things are better in threes. Neapolitan ice cream, Olympic medals, blind mice. Some things, however, are not. Like small children.
What is it about the number three that throws life so off-balance? Is it the lack of symmetry? The inability to create pairs? The fact that it’s a prime number? I’m not sure, but there’s clearly something wrong with the number three.
Take my kids, for example. One child? Perfect! Two children? Angels, practically hovering above the floor, playing delightful little angel games. Three children? Screaming, whining, food all over the floor, and somebody’s got a bruise.
Is it an alpha-male, Lion King issue we’re dealing with here? Is there something Freudian going on I may have slept through (or skipped)? Are children incapable of muddling through their rudimentary, carefree lives in groups of three? You tell me.
All I know is when I’ve got one with me, I’m practically bursting with pride. When two are in my charge, I often sit back, relishing the quiet and cooperation. And when three are home, I call for reinforcements.
I’ve got two stripping naked, and one’s running around in circles. Or one playing, one using the potty, and the other literally climbing the wall. There is no synchronicity in this house. Two of them love Dora and the other is having a tantrum so loud you’re strongly considering tossing him in a closet. The poor kid who’s unwittingly eating the pork chop is thrown completely off by the two that are propelling half-chewed meat all over the kitchen, yelling, “Uch!” and raking their tongues.
And they were all enjoying the snap peas you made until one starts theatrically spitting them from her mouth onto her tray.
If you happen to somehow create stasis (with, oh, I don’t know, say, cookies), it’s either temporary or bedtime.
You can have quite an enjoyable afternoon taking one child out shopping, or visiting. Two won’t be so bad, either, though you must brace yourself for items being snatched off shelves. Take three with you and prepare to be circled by mall security. Go ahead and try it. The odds are not in your favor. You can increase your odds with small bags of snacks or Auntie Anne’s Pretzels, but they’re just band-aids, people. Band-aids.
We’ve got a majority and a minority here, and as is the way life often goes, the minority gets the shaft. Hand out three identical toys and one child will inevitably need to hold one in each hand. One kid starts crying, and others join in with crocodile tears. Even the one holding both toys.
During those rare moments when the road’s not bumpy, I try to enjoy. I try to imagine my Utopia. Roasting marshmallows. Sharing feelings. Kumbaya. And then I am awakened by the fact that my reverie involves sticks and fire.
Someday they’ll learn to peacefully coexist, and when that day comes, I’ll be hiding around the corner with a Handycam.
