Never mind me, I’m just sitting here eating my words. I’ve been going on and on for the past few years about how wonderful the ten year age difference between my first and third kid is, and well, now I’ve hit a snag and have been forced to ‘fess up about it.

I bragged about how wonderful my son was with the baby. He held her when she was small, marveled in her milestones, rocked her, played with her, then as she grew he gave her piggy-back rides, got her juice and turned on her TiVoed Scooby Doo shows for her. I made my friends green over my live-in babysitter, allowing my husband and me to escape on weekend nights to movies or grown up dinners. All of that is still true. She adores him, he’s her hero. He thinks she’s a living doll. The trouble is not their relationship with each other. It’s their relationship with me.

I’m a smart person, one with a degree in psychology, and actually one who tends to be anxious and lie awake at night following worst case scenarios to their most horrific end. So why did I not see that at some point in this little dream family, I would be mothering a 3 year-old and a 13 year-old at the same time?

You know that scene with Homer Simpson swinging between a rock and A Hard Place? That’s me, being pulverized to dust between the toddler and the teenager.

To make it worse, they share tactics. Exchange strategies. Commiserate. I have the only three year-old in the world who stomps her foot, shouts at me, “I HATE you, you never do anything for me, leave me ALONE!” and then stomps off, slams the door behind herself and climbs into her crib. When I go in to get her, she shoves her fingers in her ears and sings, “La-La-La-La, I can’t HEAR you!” He, on the other hand is not above turning on fake water works to try to make his case more dramatic. In private. He has too much self respect to do it where any of his peeps might see. Really, I could give a dozen scenarios and quiz you—is it the teen or the toddler? And the only clue you’d have would be the size of the vocabulary, and even that is blurry, since the little one’s is expanding and the big one drops a few IQ points when he yells.

Everywhere I turn these days, there’s fear of stepping on some hidden trip wire in their delicate psyches and blowing the whole house to bits. I’m good at diffusing and ignoring and standing my ground with things. Tantrums never did really faze me. But, when there are two of them, it’s just not fair. And what works with one isn’t appropriate for the other. There are times when I would just love to hoist the big one over my shoulder and carry him out to the parking lot, strap him into his seat and tsk tsk sympathetically all the way home, “I’m sorry we had to leave like that, but when mommy says you need to stop, mommy means it, maybe next time you’ll remember that.” And, there are times with the little one when I’m dying to say, “Look, we’ve been through this, you got your answer, now leave me alone and go deal with it somewhere else, because I am DONE talking about it.” But, I can’t. The big one is too heavy and the little one won’t go away when you tell her to. They can compare notes and study each other’s techniques, but I can’t just use one universal response for both of them.

I give myself pep talks. This is normal development for both of them. Teens are supposed to be obstinate, belligerent, irrational and fickle with a dose of paranoia (“You hate me! You love her more! You wish I was never born!”) Three year-olds are supposed to obstinate, belligerent, irrational and fickle with a dose of grandeur (“No, YOU stop it, mommy! YOU’RE being bad! No, YOU sit down! Bad mommy!”) It’s normal. It’s all so agonizingly normal. They will grow out of it. I will help them along and not become a child abuser or alcoholic along the way. Then I’ll have a 4 year-old and a teenager which is better than a 3 year-old and a teenager, and surely 14 is better than 13, right? Right? I’m sure it is. Pass the salt, please.

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