Toddlernobyl

An accident has occurred at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant.  One of the reactors has been damaged.  Measures are being taken to deal with the consequences of the accident.  Assistance is being given to those affected.

— Soviet Government TASS statement, April 28, 1986

I hadn’t noticed before how much my son’s neck veins pop when he’s screaming.  He looked like a ‘roided-out beach lifter circa 1984, though instead of pumping iron he was throwing a tantrum.  It had been that kind of day.

As he screamed, my wife continued mopping, and I put a freshly arrived Amazon box, containing a new drill bit, on the counter.  The mopping had set off the initial crisis.  She had promised he could help, but apparently, she wasn’t doing it “right.”  What that means to a four-year-old is anyone’s guess except ours. 

Extended operation at reduced output allowed xenon-135 to accumulate, poisoning the reaction long before anyone touched the controls.

Suddenly, a light bulb: this was my chance to show I had paid attention to my wife’s coaching on effective parenting techniques.  I default to trying to explain things to my son through logic.  He, in turn, defaults to literally being incapable of understanding because his brain still has the structure and consistency of lukewarm applesauce. 

The right method in moments like this is redirection.  Thankfully, I had just such a capability sitting in the box on the counter.  My moment had come at last to earn the Father Hat Trick: simultaneously distract the rampaging toddler, accomplish a household task, and show my wife that sometimes I can be taught.  I reached for the box, glancing to make sure my wife was watching.

“Hey buddy,” I said, shaking the box like a zookeeper offering a treat to a semi-rabid spider monkey.  “Remember how I said we could go drill something together?  Want to do that now?”

Immediate silence.  My son stared in rapt attention as I cut the tape open and revealed the drill bit with a showman’s flourish.  I even remembered to get down at his level—I was Dadding at expert levels. 

To keep the test running, operators withdrew the control rods well past the number allowed by procedure.

The offer landed; he was hooked.  So was the mop, and it hadn’t let go yet.

He looked at the drill bit, then back to his mother as she mopped.  “Can I do both?” he asked.  Calm, thoughtful, reasonable—everything I could ask for in my son.

“No, there isn’t time.”

The emergency shutdown was designed to end the reaction instantly.  For the first four seconds, it did the opposite.

I thought the meltdown earlier had been the peak.  My son disabused me of that notion, proving that, if anything, he had been holding back.  Full-throated screams and choking sobs fought for dominance on his face as his body lashed out in all directions, desperate to convey his fury at the injustice of the world through a primal form of interpretative dance.

My wife gave me a look as I stared helplessly at her, drill bit dangling forlornly from a limp hand.  There would be no hat trick, no triumphant display of Fatherhood™ to strut about with.  Only tears, rage, and snot.

Over the following days, helicopter crews dropped thousands of tons of sand, boron, and lead onto the exposed core, hoping something in the pile would work.

We took turns trying to calm him down—hugs, snacks, stuffies—to no avail.  We had passed a critical point hours earlier with a failed nap and too little play time.  As one, my wife and I decided that it was time to call it and move straight to bed.  That, however, led to the next issue: it was my turn to put him down.

“I—” choking sob, “Don’t—” heaving breath, “Want—” eyes rolling up in his head, “Daddy!”

His mom soothed him as best she could, then handed the kicking, flailing bundle of toddler over to me to carry downstairs.  Every step down felt like a retreat, every tiny fist hitting my shoulders and arms a form of righteous indignation. 

In his room, I settled into the task of doing his bedtime routine with no cooperation.  But when he got upset that his previous PJs were dirty, I offered to tell him a bedtime story related to his fish PJs.  Exhausted, but down to one hook, he agreed.  We got him dressed and settled him into bed. Then I told him a story of a fish that needed to find his friend with only slight lifting of material from a certain clown fish’s adventure.

Generally, stories are where we end the night.  This time, though, he insisted on me singing a song—something we haven’t done in a long time.  I sang him an old favorite, just the two of us together in his room with his nightlight stars on overhead.

He stayed awake through the whole thing, quiet.  I kissed him goodnight, then slowly walked out of the room.  As I turned to shut the door, I waved.  He waved back.  The door clicked shut.