Two Toddlers in the House

"Peee-ckle, peese," Oliver looked at me with the most hopeful wide eyes he could muster.  "Peee-ckle," he repeated, in case I didn't hear him the first time. 

I brought out the jar of baby dills, forked him out a crispy one, and he cruched down with a dimpled smile.  "More peese." 

"Oliver, finish the one you have, please."

"More peee-ckle, peese."

I sighed, gave in, gave him a fork and set the jar of peee-ckles on the floor.  He likes to try to fish them out.

"Don't you think he's going to spill that alllll over the floor?"  Michael asked-without-really-asking.

My tired self sassed, "and then we'll have to do something like wipe it up with a paper towel."

We met halfway by Michael placing Oliver in his highchair with the fork and jar of pickles.  Ollie jabbed around in the vat of vinegar, unsuccessful to skewer a Gedney.  When he thought we weren't looking, he dove his hand inside, proudly plucked one out with his chubbly little fingers, and continued to fish with the fork.  He caught me laughing at him, and smiled back.  Then:
Whhhhack! Splash...  Michael dove for the jar and tipped it upright again, then took the tray to wash it off.

What came next was a scream that cracked no fewer than seven windows and a fireplace in this household.

"Buddy! Hold on!  I'm just cleaning it off!" Michael explained.

But the return of the tray and jar of pickles would not pacify.  We determined the source of tears to be teeth, as has been the case for half of this month so far. He has molars the size of marbles coming in, which have without warning turned our child into a hot screaming mess time and time again.  Our efforts this evening included Ibuprofen, Orajel, homeopathic teething tabs, and a popsicle.  I held him.  Scream.  I put him down.  "Up, Mommy, uuuuuuuuuuuuuuupppp!!!" I picked him up again.  "No! No! Dooooooooown!!!!!"  I put him down.  "Up, Moommmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!! Waaaaaahhh!"  I offered a waffle.  "Yeah.  NO!!!! No!!!!!!"  I offered the popsicle.  He reached for it. Then, "Nooooo!!!!!"  This child screamed at the top of his little toddler lungs constantly for no less than 15 minutes, which wasn't helping my headache.  I began to cry.  I held my composure, kept my voice soft, continued to try to find out what would make my little guy happy, but my face was streaked with as many tears as Oliver's was.

Through my tears I blubbered to Michael, "I just can't seem to do anything right today!"  Michael, with his dinner plate in front of him, quickly called through the chaos, "But this chicken is awesome!  How did you make it?"  God bless that man.  Still, I continued to cry and desperately search for something, something that would make Oliver okay.

Prince Micheal gently picked up the screaming mess and left the quietly tearful one to go upstairs, where he impersonated a British accent with a puffin puppet and everything was okay again.

After we all had a chance to chill out, I reflected on the avalanche of emotions.  For Oliver, this all started with pickles and ended in a frightening display of angry-sad.  Maybe he's pregnant.