Outnumbered Two to One

Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak is one of my favorite kids’ books.  Lately as my tiny toddler has morphed into a terrible two-dler, I’m drawing more and more resemblances between the book’s mischievous main character and my own darling offspring, not just because they share a name either.

The Max in the book threatens to devour his mother within the first couple of pages after getting called on his trouble-making. I’m pretty sure my son, if given the opportunity, would have me for lunch, metaphorically or otherwise.

The boy in the book travels to a distant mythical land to become king of all wild things. My little boy is the boss of everybody lately, becoming the tiny tyrant of his own kingdom, complete with sibling subjects who are at the mercy of his every whim.

The book Max finally returns to his room because he wants to be where someone loves him best of all. My Max…lets just say he doesn’t stand for public shows of affection for anyone but him. He wants to hold a monopoly on hugs and kisses and comforting pats on the back.

I wonder if Sendak’s little boy pitched storming tantrums at the drop of a hat.

So far today, my tender little guy has had screaming fits of rage over:

1. Putting on his shoes.
2. Taking off his shoes.
3. Removing accompanying socks.
4. Leaving the house.
5. Coming home.
6. Riding in the shopping cart.
7. Getting out of the shopping cart.
8. Walking on his own.
9. Getting carried.
10. His corn being too hot.
11. His corn being finished.
12. Pooping.
13. Coloring.
14. Taking a nap.
15. Watching a movie.

And the day is only half over. There’s only so much screaming one person can handle before she (or he) retreats to their own dark quiet place. If there are wild things there, so be it. I think I can handle them.

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