Outnumbered Two to One

My two year old…ah. He’s at a special stage in his life. A delicious phase that involves a roller coaster of emotions that I, his father, and his siblings are constantly weathering.

Alright, granted most of those emotions are varied and not-so-subtly nuanced states of misery, but there’s a difference nonetheless.

Observe…

This one I call “mild indignation” brought on by a frosting mustache as captured by Mommy on a digital medium. Note the refusal to make eye contact with the camera lens.

This would be “moderate agitation” incited by a playmate attempting to muscle in on his snapshot at the park. There can only be one star after all.

This is most likely “harried aggravation”, prompted by Mommy’s repeated requests that he stand still for yet another photo op, this one in a dinosaur costume that he promptly shed before angrily stomping away.

And this last in the series is aptly labeled “extreme frustration” or possibly even “cocktail of vexation with a twist of outrage” inspired by none other than a despicable choral version of the birthday song sung for some one else.

Occasionally, he’ll spare a smile or two, just don’t make any sudden movements, that could change at the drop of a hat.

1. Never assume that because a child is wearing his swim trunks, running toward the inviting water sprays of a clearly designated “splash area”, and screaming “yay” at the top of his lungs, that he actually wants to get wet.
2. Be prepared for the wild-monkey-screeching that said child will emit when confronted with the reality of ice cold water.
3. Expect him to ask you for a paper towel, before burying his wet face in to your dry pants and remaining there for the duration of the trip.
4. Realize he may at some point talk himself in to braving the rapids because clearly the other children are having so much fun. He will approach the perimeter of the splash area at a run before talking himself out of it, turning around and running back to you sobbing and asking for another paper towel.

Next time, leave the swim trunks at home.

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Now, for the record, I generally do not delight in torturing my children and broadcasting their misery on the internet. Mostly.

But yesterday, after an exceptionally long day of two-dler tantrums, my darling son took it upon himself to flip out because his big brother was eating a left over Valentine’s day party cupcake, while he was stuck with a measly sugar cookie. He tried for a good long while to snatch the cupcake out of his older brother’s hands, to no avail.

When that didn’t work he proceeded to demonstrate his frustration the following way. Being the diligent blogger that I am, I decided to capture the moment on video. Ignore my nasal tone as I try to provoke my son in to continuing his outburst, ignore also my five year old’s out of control giggling because he thought this was absolutely the funniest thing on the planet and was very proud to be a part of it.

I swear I’m not a bad mother.

7:30 am - Woke Mom up by shouting her name repeatedly until she stumbled in with her eyes half closed and picked me up.

7:31 am - Continued saying Mom’s name until she filled my bottle full of soy milk, then pitched a screaming fit because she tightened the lid without letting me help.

7:33 am - Pitched a screaming fit because Mom put me down on the sofa when I really wanted to be in her bed.

7:34 am - Pitched a screaming fit because Mom attempted to change my diaper while I was still pitching a screaming fit over the bed.

7:35 am - Drank my soy milk with a dry diaper. It was nice.

7:55 am - Pitched a fit when I realized Mom was in the bathroom without me.

8:00 am - Pitched a fit when Mom didn’t put my shoes on before my brother’s.

8:05 am - Pitched a fit because my sister turned off the television even though she knows that’s my thing in the morning.

8:10 am - Pitched a fit because Mom didn’t let me climb up in to my car seat by myself.

8:13 am - Rode in the car while we dropped the other kids off at school, Mom played the Muppets. It was nice.

8:30 am - Pitched a fit because Mom wouldn’t let me unlock the front door with her keys.

8:35 - Pitched a fit because Mom wouldn’t let me fill up the dogs’ water bowls. What is her problem anyway?

8:40 - Pitched a fit because Mom made me come inside from the backyard, only to make me walk out the front door, just to get in the car again to take another sister to school. Then she wouldn’t let me climb up in to my car seat like before…what did she think was going to happen?

9:00 am - Watched Backyardigans. Told Mom yes, I wanted pancakes, except I really didn’t and I had no intention of eating them.

9:20 am - Backyardigans was over so I pulled seven DVD cases off the shelves and tried to pry the discs out before Mom could wrestle them out of my hands.

9:30 am - Pitched a fit because the dogs ate the pancakes I had not intention of eating myself.

9:35 am - Went to my room and pulled as many of my brother’s toys as I could get out of the box, even though I have no intention of playing with them.

9:55 am - Got hungry, wished for pancakes, then pitched a fit for a Hershey’s kiss. Mom gave me cereal instead. That woman never listens.

10:00 am -  Went outside and tried to play with a plastic baseball bat. I think it was broken because it didn’t do anything so I threw it in to the grass and pitched a fit, except this time I tripped and fell on the concrete, which made me really angry, so I pitched another fit on top of the first one. I don’t think anyone could tell the difference.

10:10 am - Mom filled a watering can for me and let me water the plants, only I watered the concrete instead. Also I pitched a fit when it was empty.

10:30 am - Mom said she would make me a hard boiled egg except she wouldn’t let me hold the egg, so I said “aw, man” and pitched a fit.

10:45 am - Mom brought me a perfectly cooked hard boiled egg which I ate with a sprinkle of salt. When I was finished I asked her for more but she said “all done”. What the hell? Does she want me to eat or not? I pitched a fit.

11:00 am - Hid in my bedroom behind the door so I could poop in privacy. It was nice.

11:10 am - Mom came looking for me, she sensed something was amiss. When she asked me if I had poop, I said no and ran away. She caught me and tried to change my diaper, except she wouldn’t let me reach down and wipe for myself, so I tried to pitch a fit but she pitched a louder one which made me quiet down and be still.

11:20 am - Started feeling tired so I spun circles in the living room until I got dizzy and fell down, then pitched a fit

11:30 am - Hid beneath some furniture because it seemed like a good place to lie down.

11:45 am - Mom took me to my bed for some night-night even though it was still day time which didn’t even make sense. I thought about pitching a fit but my eyes. felt. so. heavy. And I meant to get really angry, but. then. I. just. fell. asleep.

To Be Continued…

My two year old isn’t afraid of anything.

Scratch that.

My two year old wasn’t afraid of anything.

Recently we discovered his fear of the dark during one of our routine bed time rituals.

A couple of weeks ago we unmasked yet another fear during an evening bath.

Okay, I might be partially to blame for this phobia he’s developed.

This guy shoulders the rest of the responsibility…

It was a quiet night in the Bear house. The boys were getting washed up before bed. There were soap suds and lathering and scrubbing of the several layers of dirt and stink they’d accumulated, when all of a sudden my five year old said, “Mom, there’s a bug in the tub.”

The bug in question was a teeny tiny black speck of a cockroach floating leg up in the bath water.

“Get a grip,” I mentally prepared myself.

I decided to scoop up the obviously dead insect in my cupped palms and flush it down the nearby toilet. Great idea in theory.

Great idea until the creepy little mutant demon spawn faker cockroach miraculously resurrected and started CRAWLING up my arm.

So I did what any grown adult woman would do.

I screamed like a girl and flung the cockroach on to my two year old son, who just happened to be within flinging range.

Wait, it gets better.

I flung the no longer dead cockroach on to my two year old son’s PRIVATES and by privates I mean his genitals.

I threw a cockroach at my son’s genitals. Which made him scream like a girl. Which made me hop up and down for a good five seconds while I regrouped before finally snatching the bug and brushing it off my hand in to the toilet at last.

Talk about terror. Not mine, the boy’s.

He screeched, he cried, he climbed sopping wet on to my lap and buried his damp face in to my shirt and I felt like a heel.

Maybe some day, after years of therapy, he’ll learn to forgive me. Or at least channel his fear in to something productive, like a blockbuster screenplay or a really cool blog.

My two year old and I spend a lot of time together due to my not being gainfully employed. It works out for us. Being that I’m with him 24/7 with few exceptions, I’d like to think I know him pretty well. That I’m attuned to the subtle nuances of his little boy moods. I know exactly how to field his frequent tantrums, how to coax him into eating that last bite of mac n’ cheese, how best to get him down for a nap when he’s feeling restless, how to distract him when he wants to overdose on chocolate cookies, or watch Ice Age for the 37th time.

Wednesday while I was chaufeurring my mother to her various appointments, my son was spending the day at home with his father.

I fully expected my son to be inconsolable. Separation anxiety is rough when you’re two, and my little guy is no exception. I slipped away that morning while my husband ran interference, keeping him busy with toys and talk as I tip-toed out the front door.

Now on an average morning, my son will have at least a couple of good scream fests, a couple of minor cries, with a liberal amount of whining sprinkled throughout. When I called later, everything sounded peachy, my two year old even got on the telephone to tell me about pancakes and the dogs and some other unintelligible mumbo jumbo. It was noonish and he should’ve been down for his nap, but wasn’t.

Twenty minutes later when I got home, I was embraced at the knees by an eager, happy two year old who promptly abandoned my jean clad legs for bigger and better things. Three minutes later he was begging me to be picked up, screeching when I wouldn’t, telling me to make him more pancakes, then not eating them, then having an arm flailing fit because I refused to sit him on the counter and let him get at the sugar bowl.

“You know he didn’t do that once while you were gone,” my husband announced from across the room, more than a little smug.

“Do what?”

“Cry, pitch a fit, all that. We watched one movie, he ate a plate of pancakes by himself, we played outside, we colored. He didn’t fight me at all.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m serious.”

All this while my rapidly regressing two year old rode on my hip, whining directly in my left ear and tugging at the collar of my shirt, occasionally reaching down in to my cleavage for no apparent reason.

Really? Really?

I suppose all this is further proof of my two-dler’s impressive manipulative techniques.

This kid, is totally playing me.

What he knows is that Daddy doesn’t mess around. In his world, no means no, yes means yes. And shrieking will get him nowhere.

Daddy is tough. Mommy is another story. Think of it as bad cop/invertebrate cop and you get the idea.

Now if only I could find a spine cheap on Ebay.

It’s been months since this kid got his haircut. Luckily for me he is an exemplary customer, never a peep out of him when he gets it snipped, but I’ve grown so attached to his lovely locks that I’m reluctant to get them chopped. My five-year-old has bristly straight hair, so letting it grow out was never an option, but this kid has a completely different texture. And admittedly, I love the rock star, hippie thing he’s got going on.  I just don’t know when enough is enough. There’s not much I can do with it at this point other than comb it off to the side, since he’s a boy up dos are not an option so he’s stuck with this shaggy look.

I think he wears it well, but I’m a little biased.

What do you think? Chop or not?

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.

If I had a puke umbrella, it would have seen quite a bit of use the past few days.

Saturday, my five-year-old son, who I had assumed was over the worst of his (0ur) flu, began throwing up. He was lethargic on and off all day between bouts of vomiting. I was sure he would be too sick to attend school (thus successfully ruining my dreams of a mostly empty house) but by Monday, he was absolutely fine despite his assurances that *koff, koff, groan, groan* he was still very ill.

I can spot a faker when I see one…he is number three in a family of quite dramatically gifted children.

But yesterday the other shoe fell, and my toddler, my sweet hellion of a child, proceeded to throw up on or near my person a whopping total of five times. There’s only so much barf a mother can get on herself before she starts to take it personally, before she begins to think it’s some sort of gross conspiracy designed with the sole purpose of breaking her spirit…

So of course, it being a weekday, we whisked our sick little cherub to the pediatrician’s where he quickly diagnosed him with nothing other than some irritating bug that will eventually run its course.

Well, duh.

Also, we should not feed our baby dairy, or soy, or anything that he normally eats.

In case you have never met a toddler, let me fill you in. There is no reasoning with a two-year-old. Their language is limited, their patience is nil, and their capacity for shrieking is otherworldly.

Now, say a sibling pulls out a bag of Cheetos and starts munching away in said toddler’s vicinity. The results, my friends, are EXPLOSIVE. Perhaps not nuclear, but pretty darn destructive in their own right. I won’t even touch the powdered donut fiasco.

Another down-side…and you responsible parents might want to cover your ears eyes for this next segment. My toddler, my two-year-old child, falls asleep every night happily sucking on a bottle of soy milk. Without the bottle, there is no bedtime routine, he will not put his sweet little head on his pillow without that silicone nipple propped in his mouth.

This is going to require some improvisation, as well as creativity I doubt I can muster after the night we had. Let’s just say said throw-uppy baby ended up in his parent’s bed, his little boy feet pressed alternately against his mother’s ribs, her spine and her neck. I’ve got muscle aches places I didn’t even know there was muscle tissue.

Hopefully we’re seeing the tail end of this thing, this ongoing plague. Even still, I think that puke umbrella is a good investment.

You’d buy one, wouldn’t  you?

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