I had heard about the terrible twos. Heck, I thought I had experienced them. But ohhhh no. Oh no no no no no.
I have been misinformed on many counts. I thought this was a period of mild defiance, with maybe a tantrum thrown here and there for effect. I thought this was something I might not have to experience at all. My Thalia? My sweet, loveable, charming funny little girl? Nah.
Crow: Tastes a whole lot like chicken.
What no one told me is that terrible is just understated spin, a false description offered in lieu of the more accurate (although less alliterative) appalling or egregious, a lie propagated to keep the childless from remaining so. Certainly humanity as we know it would die out, Children of Men style, should the general population catch wind of what’s in store for them a mere 30 months after labor and delivery. Like hemorrhoids aren’t deterrent enough.
This stage is fact not the terrible twos, or even the egregious twos. It is nothing short of Toddler PMS.
(Has anyone ever called it this before? I ‘m sure they have. And they’d be accurate.)
Or perhaps it’s just a case of satanic posession. Neither would be hard for me to believe, although I would like a firm diagnosis so I know whether to call an exorcist or pump Thalia full of Motrin and crank up the Sarah McLaughlin music.
I want something to eat mommy.
Okay, would you like ravioli? The fun ones, shaped like stars and hearts?
Noooo! NO RAVIOLI! WAHHHH!!! RAVIOLIIIII! NOOOOOO! I DON’T WANT TO EAT RAVIOLIIIIIII AUGHHHHHH!
Oh I’m sorry, did I say “live earthworms in a pool of monkey brains?” I swear, I thought I said ravioli. Sometimes I confuse them.
(sniff, sob) I want cereal.
No sweetie, cereal is for breakfast. What else can I get you?
CEREALLLLLLL! WAHHHHHH!! CE. RE. ALLLLLLLLL!!!!
How about a peanut butter sandwich?
NOOOOOOO…. WAHHHHH! I W-W-WANT CEREAL.
You can cut it yourself.
(sniff) Yes. I want a sandwich. (sniff) I want to go cut it. (brightly) Carry me mommy! Carry me and I will cut the sandwich all by myself!
The spirit is willing but the feet are weak.
I want to spread the peanut butter on the bread. Then I want to lick the peanut butter off the knife.
No sweetie, no licking off…
WAHHHHHH! I WANT TO LICK IT OFF THE KNIFE!
Fine, fine. You can lick the knife. (Am I a pushover parent?)
NO!!!! I DON’T WANT TO LICK THE KNIFE!!!! NOOOOOOO WAHHHHHHH!!!
Okay! Don’t lick the knife! Geez. Fine. I’m going to give you some carrots with that.
NOOOOO! CARROTTSSSSS!!! WAHHHHH! NOOOOOO!!
Or melon?
Melon! I like melon! I want some melon. I want some melon! So good. Can I cut it?
Sure. Of course. I’m glad you’re happy. Here’s the knife…
NOOOO….I WANT CARROTTTTSSSSSS! I DON’T WANT TO CUT THE MELON. WAHHHHHHH! I WANT CEREAL! CARRY ME! WAHHHHH!
It’s especially fun when you throw a baby into the mix. Fortunately Sage is a good-natured one. At least during daylight hours. But there was a moment tonight in which I did have to insist that only one child was permitted to cry at a time.
And just in time for preschool interviews. Good times.
