I hope you sang that in your head with a Celine Dion voice. Your ear-worm for the evening....you're welcome!
So having a baby is a wonderful thing. All the pain and exhaustion you have is completely forgotten by the time you start thinking about having another. That is why so many people tend to get themselves in this situation several times over. The thing is, they don't stay small forever. They turn one and then two...the TERRIBLE 2's!! Emily just turned two. I know can you believe it? It has been 2 years since you all had to listen to me whine and complain about the flipping hole she left in my belly. Well, technically not her, more like Romeo the craptastic doctor that ruined my body forever. But I digress. Back to Emily and the terrible 2's...if I am being completely honest, and I always am with my faithful readers, Emily hit the terrible 2's at about 9 hours old!! The difference is now she has the words and attitude to go along with it. Here are some of the reasons for her honest to God, full on tantrums;
* The girls were playing the back yard today. They found a salamander and proceed to, in their opinion, play with it...in mine torture it. They had a blast for a few hours making it a home, holding it and trying to make it do tricks in a pie plate on the kitchen table. I was totally grossed out about the whole thing but, my inner pre-school teacher kicked in and I said a prayer on behalf of the poor salamanders life, which, undoubtedly will be lost at some point this weekend and let them have a hands on science lesson. So they are done playing. I tell them they all need to wash their hands before touching anything else. Sara and Anna comply...though Anna kicked Sara off the bathroom stool and Sara retaliated by splashing soapy water in Anna's eye...I don't intervene because that seemed like a fair fight. Now it is Emily's turn to wash her hands. She flat out refuses. She was the one man-handling that little amphibian more than anyone...I pick my battles with her but, this WILL be a mommy victory! I chase her toddler body and wipe her hands with a wet, soapy paper towel. No sooner do I let go and she flops her body down on the kitchen floor and has a full on tantrum. Yeah, that's reasonable. Since Emmie is my 3rd child, I step right over her and finish my conversation with Chuck.
* Being clean really is an issue with Emily. She just doesn't like it. Last night I was at a friend's house and her granddaughter came over. I wanted to take her home. She is so sweet and funny, but you know what got me the most? She was CLEAN! Her clothes were clean. Her face was clean. Her hands were clean. Her hair was clean. My children, Emily especially, look homeless on a daily basis. Emily hates getting her face washed, hates baths and anything generally associated with cleanliness. If I do manage to get a swipe in with a face cloth she freaks out until I "wipe the clean off"...so I have to take my hands and wipe her face. That is the only way to turn her from Cybil back to Emily.
* Emily's love of all things filthy extends to her hair. She has blond curly hair, not sure where that comes from, I swear Dr. Romeo probably gave us the wrong baby, so if you are unable to wash and or brush curly hair guess what happens? Dread locks. My 2 year old daughter has organic dreadlocks. They completely formed on their own. Since I don't know what to do with them I figure I will not fight this one... just embrace my hippie child and dress her in tie-dye shirts and spray her with patchouli. Oh, speaking of clothes, I am so sick of the fight-- she wears her clothes to bed at night, many times she doesn't want to change the following day. My theory of dressing her goes something like this, "is there any chance we could see someone today that we saw yesterday? No, great, dirty clothes it is. Yes, she gets changed. Third child...I have no fight left in me...
* Again, with the hygiene. One time I changed Emily's poop and there was a sticker in there. It was not in her poop. One fell into her diaper. Now, every single diaper change she INSISTS on inspecting her poop over and over and over. If I roll the diaper up without letting her look at her sh*t lovingly and comment on it...the sh*t will literally fly!! She will scream so loud the heavens will open up and thunderbolts will crash! So if you are ever around for a diaper change be prepared to sit and have a half hour dissertation on Emily's excrement. After said dissertation, you will then be treated to her butt shaking show, that again, needs to happen with each and every diaper change or there will be hell to pay. You will then see me trying to quietly and ever so gently sneak the clean diaper back on. Why am I putting it on like a super stealth ninja trying to steal the crown jewels? Oh, that is easy...she DOES NOT want you to put a clean diaper on her. She wants to wear the dirty one again. Em and I have been late to many playgroups/events because I (a 42 year old with degrees in Child Development) can not get my child to cooperate and put a friggin clean diaper on. I have added Wheelock College to my speed dial...there have been so many times as a parent, I felt it my duty to return my degree because I am, in essence a fraud.
* Another fun tantrum was when Emily wanted to pat the dog in the Dr. Jeff Rocky Mountain Vet commercial. She did not care the dog was on TV and not actually in our house. She did not care the commercial was now over. She did not care that our TV screen was hard and you can't reach inside it. She didn't care she had her own, real live dog in front of her she could pat FOR REAL! Nope, she wanted that dog and she wanted it NOW. Thank God our neighbors are elderly and have poor hearing because the way she was screaming, crying and carrying on sounded like I was torturing her....I wouldn't blame them if they called the police on us, or DCF...hell, the thought of calling them crossed my mind at about minute 18 of the tantrum!!
* Proud parenting moment--as we were walking out of Emily's playgroup the other day she grabs hold of my hand, looks at me lovingly and says, "I hate you mom". Lovely! Now in Emily's defense she has 2 older sisters who use that word with each other so often I am sure Emily thinks it is a term of endearment. Now if there is anything slightly distasteful to her sensibilities she just blurts out "I hate it". Here are a few of the things Emmie hates; me, Chuck, her sisters, her dog, lunch, food, naps, the car, Bubble Guppies, me, coloring, tubs, brushes, our cats, me again, the ipad, the sun, the rain, the moon, diapers, night-night, socks, you get the point...
* This tantrum was mind boggling. She was done eating. I asked if I should save it or throw it away. She clearly stated I should throw it away. So like an a$$hole I gave a piece to the dog and I had some...The rage that came over her would be frightening if she weren't so flippin cute. She is screaming those were hers and she wants them back! Now! Well, both Mary and I had swallowed our apple slices...there was no way we could give them back. She was out for blood! I told her I could cut another apple. Nope, she didn't want to eat anymore. She wanted her apples back! Give them back they are mine--she shouted over and over again. Once more I offer her another apple, once again she turns me down. I ask her if she doesn't want another apple to eat why does she insist on getting her old ones back. So I can throw them away she answers. This went on for another few minutes and I just walked away laughing. Now when she says she is done, me and Mare wait for her to leave the kitchen before we sneak her leftovers.
* Emily doesn't quite understand the meaning of privacy. When I go into the bathroom she follows me in and says, "I give you privacy." Um, yeah, no Emily...if you were outside of the closed door you would give me privacy. But, you are inside of the closed door, staring at me and cheering me on when I pee yelling, "You peed! Good girl Mommy!"...I am not a security expert or anything but I am pretty confident Emily, when I say that is the absolute opposite of privacy. It is an exercise in futility trying to convince her otherwise. It is easier for me to pop a squat with her watching than risk kidney damage trying to get her to understand why her argument is weak. Though every time I am in there on the toilet I can't help but sing Hall & Oates's Private Eyes. Earworm #2 for the night, again, you are more than welcome my friends.
* One of her tantrums that spurred her on to scream she hates me happened when I refused to lock her in the dog's crate, with the dog, so they could take a nap together. Now, I am all for children having the experience of having pets to grow up with, but I draw the line at them sleeping in a locked crate together. Maybe I am just an overly cautious helicopter mom or an a$$hole, I am sure my kids would go with the latter of the two, but that one I am not budging on.
* I could go on and on about her wonderful two year old behavior but I don't want to bore you all to death. So I will leave you with this one, again, I am apparently that hands-off parent not completely dedicated to my children's well being...I mean I never wrapped my babies to me with a colorful looking ace bandage thingy and I supplemented them with formula, oh the horrors! And under no circumstance will I ever, EVER eat one of my children's boogers. Yup, Emily picked her nose and proudly showed me her treasure. She was so proud, so proud in fact that she wanted to share it with me. Placing it in the tissue I was holding was not good enough, oh no, she wanted me to eat it. ABSO-FRIIGIN-LUTELY NOT! The look on her face when I told her no, I would not eat your mucus was what I imagine a child to look like when you told them their puppy just died. She was so hurt that I would not eat it. She looked physically pained. She fell to the floor and sobbed the saddest cry I have ever heard from her. Her dramatics did not sway me in the least. I wiped the booger off her finger and threw that tissue in the trash so fast she didn't even notice. Now I know I am not the perfect parent and I am almost certain I am giving my children's future therapists a lot to work with but, when Emily is in her teen years and I am invited into a counseling session to help her process her traumatic childhood I will punch the therapist in the face if she accuses me of not demonstrating my undying love for my child by not snacking on her snot.
Oh, guess what? In my experience 3 year olds are WAY harder than 2 year olds...