Heaven Help Us When She’s Sixteen. Or Four.

You’d think that with a second child I’d feel like less of a novice mother. I’ve been through it all once, so the second time through is just a refresher, only this time I know what mistakes not to make, right?

Right?

Ha.

Miranda is a child so different from Cordelia that I often find myself wondering if Cordy is really mine and I imagined the whole idea of raising her from a baby. Because Mira makes me doubt all of my parenting knowledge on a daily – hourly – basis.

When Cordy was three years old my primary concern was keeping her from completely losing it and slipping into a violent meltdown. Oh sure, I also had to deal with feeding her because she wouldn’t use a spoon, and changing diapers because she had no interest in potty training, but the goal of each day was to get to the end of it without having to restrain her so she didn’t crack her head open from banging it into the floor. The biggest fight we had was keeping the TV on Noggin versus some non-kiddie-crack TV.

Sounds tough, right? I had no idea how easy I had it.

Because with Mira, three years old is totally different. Now I have to deal with refusing to get dressed because she wanted to wear the PINK shirt, not the blue one. And attitude because I dared help her take off her pull-up when she could clearly do it all herself. And refusing to eat her yogurt because I had the nerve to try to help her with her spoon. And dinnertime cries of, “No! I wan appasace not yogut! I change mah miiiiiind!”

And making me go back into the house to find her damn sunglasses, because the sun is in her darling eyes and we wouldn’t want her to go blind, right? And insisting on buying only PINK clothing when we go clothes shopping, a task that she insists on joining me for and during which I endure the semi-incoherent Mira babble of how those leggings match that dress and how she LOOOOVES those PINK shoes.

It’s exhausting.

But now we’re truly heading into uncharted waters, as she’s decided to go exploring her surroundings in ways that Cordy never attempted, either because she wasn’t interested or because she didn’t notice.

Two weeks ago I noticed Mira’s Thomas the Tank Engine pajama top had a couple of holes in it. When I asked her what happened to her shirt, she said, “Da kitdie did it.” It seemed odd that a claw hooked in a shirt would cause so much damage, but I shrugged and chalked it up to cheap manufacturing.

Then a few days later I found Aaron’s beard trimming scissors on the floor of the bathroom. And new holes in her shirt. It would seem the cats had somehow developed opposable thumbs and exacted their revenge on Mira – who never lets them into her room – by sneaking in at night and cutting holes in her shirt with the scissors.

Or Mira just didn’t want to tell us she experimented with scissors. I’m just thankful she didn’t cut her hair.

And then today, Aaron came downstairs with a puzzled look on his face and asked, “OK, which little girl has been using my toothpaste?”

Cordy immediately answered, “Not me!” and Mira copied her with the same response, trying her best to look like she didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Well, one of you has been into it, because you forgot to put the cap back on. Now who did it?”

Cordy again proclaimed her innocence, and Mira then looked at the ground, hands behind her back as she kicked at nothing in front of her and quietly replied, “I di-it.”

“Why were you playing with the toothpaste?”

“I bwush my teeh,” she replied, as if to say duh, what did you think I’d do with it? Only she had no toothbrush in that bathroom. It soon came out that she was sneaking into the bathroom in the early morning and putting toothpaste on her finger and pretending to brush her teeth. You know, since we locked up the scissors already.

Then this afternoon, I walked into the living room and sat down, and Mira quickly climbed into my lap. I immediately smelled something odd, but couldn’t quite place it. I knew it was coming from Mira, but couldn’t figure out what the strong, chemical-like smell was.

And then I saw the travel size bottle of Downy Wrinkle Releaser on the floor. The scent suddenly had a name.

“What did you do?” I demanded to know.

Mira immediately started her – now routine – answer of, “I sowwy, I sowwy, I sowwy!” She’s learned to begin with a flurry of sad-voiced apologies and hope her cuteness will keep her out of time out. I then discovered through interrogation that she thought the small spray bottle was just like my “soap” (aka the spray hand sanitizer I often use) and had decided to spray herself with it during the 5 minutes no one was looking. At least her dress no longer had any wrinkles in it.

The worst part of all of this is that we had no idea Mira could reach or would even be interested in this stuff, and how she gets into it without us seeing her. She’s like a ninja. The bathroom items were far back on the counter, beyond her reach and likely beyond her site without a step stool. The wrinkle releaser was in a drawer. Now I’m forced to look at everything and wonder how long until she figures out the childproof lock on the cabinets under the sink? Would she want the pack of matches next to the candle on the fireplace mantle? Could two step stools stacked on each other be enough to reach that high? What if she got a stick to knock them down while balancing on two step stools?  

Maybe I baby-proofed the house better with Cordy? I don’t remember it being any different than now. Or maybe I just had no idea what to expect when raising a typical child? When your first child has autism, you come to accept her quirks and different path of development as your own personal norm. So then a neurotypical second child comes along and suddenly you’re not feeling so smug when your friend complains about her child giving her dolls a haircut and coloring on the walls with crayons, because your second child is now decorating her skin with permanent marker and trying to shave the cat with your razor.

I don’t remember this chapter in the parenting handbooks.