MY TALL TODDLER

“Time to pack up the house,” said my friend, Jayne.  Her comment took me back to the years when my children were nearly new and curious.   With each day of discovery they were building tiny bits of gathered information into knowledge on their pathway toward adulthood.   From the time they stopped eating dust bunnies and dog hair off the floor while exploring the world from a crawling perspective and moved up to the more interesting level of table tops, chairs and kitchen cabinets, our home provided them with an array of items to touch, handle and hold.  But before we allowed their small inquisitive hands to turn our treasurers into a destruction derby, we gathered up what was valuable and packed it away.    The replacements were either unbreakable or theirs, including Little Golden Books, Lincoln Logs, building blocks, an array of toys and older magazines.   In addition to their newly developed mobility, a keen sense of adventure took their tiny toddling  feet from room to room in search of everything in general and nothing in particular.  Our generation didn’t have “baby locks” to attach to cabinets and drawers, so we often tied the handles together by looping a shoe string from one to the other which restricted door opening.   They also learned the meaning of “no no,” allowing normalcy to return to our home very quickly.

Alzheimer’s has taken away Ken’s recognition of many things, but not his curiosity.  I often find him looking at something with the same look of puzzlement that a toddler might have while examining an unfamilar object.   He also rearranges things to his liking.   On the kitchen counter, all things are shoved up against the splash back, and I have found decorating items and candles jammed into the flour and sugar cannisters.  My watches were removed from a small box and replaced with a handful of screws; two watches still missing.  He likes the toss pillows on the bed to be in a row and not in a pile.  My cologne bottles are also in a row, but lying flat and not standing.  On our bedroom desk, there is a fairly recent framed photo of the two of us. I came in one afternoon and was surprised to see Oprah staring back at me from the same frame.  Ken had taken off the back, removed the filler — and the glass — then stuffed in the lastest issue of  “O” magazine.  He then replaced the backing and set Oprah where we had been.    While his rearranging is harmless, the tall toddler, because he is tall, can get into more trouble, posing more danger to himself (and possibly others) than a small toddler.

I found him in the bathroom one day going through the medicine cabinet where he had found a recent perscription for tranquilizers prescribed by his neurologist to keep him from becoming overly agitated.   A tiny, but very potent pill, he receives 1/2 in the morning and the other half in the early evening.  When I found him he had three pills in the palm of his hand.    “What’s that?” I asked innocently.  “These are mine,” he answered.  “See my name on the bottle.”  I agreed with him that, indeed, they were his, but three pills were far too many.  He allowed me to put them away and we went on to other things.  I knew then it was time to begin locking things away.  He is still too smart for baby locks and I have found that AD patients have a certain cunning about them, so I have had to devise other means of security.  The recessed medicine cabinet is flanked by two linen cabinets.   By drilling a small hole through the linen cabinet into the edge of the medicine cabinet door, I can slip a nail into the two holes; the nail hidden by towels.  The medicine cabinet door doesn’t budge, proved by my sister, Janet, when needing two Tylenol tables for a headache.

In one bathroom, Ken has forgotten how to turn off the water with a single handle control, flooding the bathroom each time he used it.  With the plug in and the water running at full force, the overflow couldn’t handle the rush of water.  When the flood began spilling into the floor, he walked away.  Fortunately, I discovered it  just as the water reached the hall carpet.  I have turned off the water under the sink: problem solved.  I’ll be putting in baby wipes for guests.  I tell Ken it’s broken and encourage him to use the other bathroom, which isn’t without its own problems.  With two handles, he remembers to turn off only one.   Under the sink I have adjusted the valves causing the water to barely trickle.  Frustrating for all, but, again, problem solved. 

For a long time my tall toddler didn’t bother the stove, but recently Ken began “testing” the burners.   “This is my house,” he explains, “and I have to make sure everything is working.”  He wasn’t really sure how to turn them off, so two or three remained on until I found them.  For a while I pulled the 220 fuse, but it’s easier to remove and hide the knobs, retrieving one when I need to cook.   I have also changed the passage knobs on the bedroom doors replacing them with ones which are keyed.  This procedure is for me.  Keeping him out  of rooms where he need not be eliminates the possibility of countless hiding places, nor does it allow him to ransack the drawers when he is looking for “something.”    It also allows me a few treasurers left unpacked. 

Before my mother’s mind was taken away by this same awful disease, I had written her about something troubling in my life at the time.  I can’t even remember what it might have been, but in response she sent me a comforting letter and a small message to ponder, which I kept.   It said, “Accept the challenges and problems that come into your life.  Think of them as broadening — stepping stones to a richer life — even if they wound and hurt.”    If she were here I would tell her that in coping with my tall toddler, I’m giving her advice my best shot.