I was at my friend’s Sprinkle the other day. And the hubs and his sister were hanging out with the boys. And apparently, the middlest did not approve of daddy flushing the toilet. Because although his answer of, “No, I want daddy to” to the question posed by my husband of, “Do you want to flush your poopies away or do you want daddy to” would have indicated that he was cool as a cuke about my husband depressing the flusher, any parent of a toddler should know that this was not the case. Which led to a complete and utter failure by the toddler to act like a human. And resulted in him being carried up the stairs, once again, and poured into his bed for nap time.
BEFORE I say the next sentence, I must first state that I love my children… I hope that there is never any question from them that this is always and forever the case. But honestly, living with a toddler hurts my brain. Really people. It hurts. My brain. And it drains my reserves. It’s not about the middlest even. It’s about toddlers. Because while not quite as severe {although perhaps I blocked it out} we’ve been down this road before. And why does it hurt my brain? Because every day is opposite day except when it isn’t. Every time your three year old says he wants you to tie his shoe, he’s lying. Except when he isn’t and he really does want you to tie his shoe. Until he changes his mind when you are mid bunny-around-the-tree and he throws a complete knipshunfit. Then it wasn’t opposite day until it was. Didja get that?
And so, as parents of a three year old, we are currently living in a somewhat constant state of high alert, on the edge of our seats, and participating in a rousing day-in and day-out game of don’t poke the bear. It’s super fun. Kind of like root canal fun.
And you know the worst part? These little monkeys can seriously be the sweeeeeetest of the sweet. They can make you think that you should probably have as many as 6 more children because little kids are the best part of life. I mean just look at that kid up in that picture. He’s fa-reaking precious. And funny. And snuggly. And darling.
And then.
Then they can make you miserable. I know. But it’s true. My toddler has the ability to take a perfectly good day, throw in three half hour plus kicking-screaming-animal like behavior-meltdowns, and basically reduce me to tears. Shakes. Fetal rocking. And glances into the mirror asking my reflection when did you get like this? And you know why I’m crying? Because I can’t take my emotions out on my toddler. Because I am the adult here. Gosh darn it. Why do I have to be the adult? And because I am the adult, I am to know how to attempt to manage my emotions. I have to walk away if he won’t listen. I have to realize that timeouts are now pointless for him. And talking to him, any attempt to reason, well that’s as useless as men having nipples. Usually he just has to work it out. Even if he’s not sure how. He is just not there yet. Nor should I expect him to be — in all situations. But that is tough to remember during a fit wherein he yells, “YOU DON’T DO THAT!” for 18 minutes straight because I asked him to try his pizza. Which he requested. And if you think 18 minutes sounds like nothin’, I challenge you to fill a ziplock bag with ice and hold it in your hand for 18 minutes without feeling like you might lose a hand. That’s basically the same type of endurance needed for a lengthy tantrum. Only during a tantrum, the goal is to not lose your head.
Man alive… if toddlers were sent here to make sure that adults learn patience, then mission freaking accomplished. Or at least, mission being worked on being accomplished.
A good portion of people live past the age of 3 years old. But I can tell you, I have recently been questioning how those percentages work out so well. I mean, I am a mother who loves my children. Who signed up for this motherhood gig. And I find myself, often, at my wit’s end with these torrential tantrums. I have to walk away. And just tell myself I am at a spa… a really loud, unruly spa. Just so I can be transported away. Or I have to scoop him in my lap and hug him. Gently. Hug him gently. So as to try to transport him away from the tantrum. How do the parents who don’t like their children {don’t kid yourself. These people exist} not completely lose their shit more often? Like in a seriously not good way? These are the big questions of the universe.
In a past blog post regarding the status of my toddler’s hot dog, I wrote about ways I am managing to ruin his life. So I ask myself daily or at least every two days, am I ruining my toddlers life? And I think if he could respond, depending on the time of day, he would scream back NOOOOOOOOO! At least that’s what he’s normally screaming during his tantrum du jour. NOOOOOOO! So maybe I’m not ruining his life. But we are managing to make him very irate about certain things… which include but are not limited to, the following scenarios:
1. Asking him to sit on the potty in the morning. For the love! Who would want to sit on the potty after sleeping all night!
2. Asking him for a hug in the morning. Implorable!
3. Attempting to give him a high five in the morning. You keep your high fives low, mama!!
4. Asking him what he wants for breakfast. Because yesterday I didn’t ask. And that was wrong.
5. Telling him I love him in the morning. It’s too early for love!
Clearly these are huge offenses. So perhaps, you say, he isn’t a morning person. And to that I give you exhibit b. Or, as I like to call it, AB — for After Breakfast.
6. Telling him I like his shirt. Noooo!
7. Asking him if he knows where his coat is. This. This is always wrong.
8. Looking at him with a smile. Smiles are the worst!
9. Looking at him with a frown. Frowns are the worst!
10. Telling him it’s time to go to school. He hates school! He loves school! He can’t live without it!
And then, there’s the post-school portion of the day or as I like to refer to it Volcanus Eruptus. This is the serious DO NOT POKE THE BEAR portion of the day wherein, I duck and cover on several occasions. Including:
11. Asking him to go sit on the potty before lunch. That’s inhumane!
12. Asking what he wants for lunch. He doesn’t want choices!! But if I don’t give choices, he wants choices!!
13. Getting him the lunch he wants. Which he has since determined he does not want.
14. Not giving him more than 5 of Harrison’s puffs until he actually eats one bite of the food that he’s requested.
15. Asking him to finish his milk {our ONE rule at the table. ONE rule.}. Milk! I’m the worst mother on the planet with my milk request!
If we somehow make it through the lunch time without complete world domination, we’re sure to get there by rest time at least four out of seven days. Especially if I…
16. Ask him if he wants to watch a show or take a walk. He wants a show. He wants a walk. He wants the world!
17. Hang his backpack up. It’s his backpack. He wanted to have it up. But he didn’t.
18. Asking him if he wants me to flush his pees. For gosh sakes! The audacity that I’d want to flush the standing pee he’s left behind.
19. Ask him if he wants to pick out a book for rest time. The book! Why would he want to pick the book! He wants me to pick the book! He wants to pick the book! He wants the magic 8 ball to pick the book!
20. Sing him the song he chose. Because duuuuh. Not the song he wanted!
So that’s a good portion of our day. And outside of bedtime {which also is a scene… but we just started a chart… more on that later…}, the true hotbeds of emotional ruin. Now, if you’re a smarty pants, you may see a trend. Most of the time… Most… the tantrums occur when he is not in charge. Because he is Mr. Independent. Which is totally age appropriate. And honestly, he has been that way since he cracked out of the egg. So it should not come as any bit of surprise that he’s still very opinionated. And will likely forever be so. And that I don’t mind. Strong will is not bad. But what is not so fun… the three half hour plus tantrums we endured yesterday. There is no love or logic to solve such situations. And we’ve reached pretty far into our bag of tricks.
Luckily, the middlest’s conferences occured with flying colors. With no mention of sensory issues. At all. His teachers adore him. He’s a “leader” and a “helper” and a “joy” and “the best listener” and “really bright”. Ahem. Really, I can see those things in him. I see a lot of beauty in this little boy. And in his heart. But crimenately. I wouldn’t mind hearing that he’s had even one breakdown at school. One time of kicking and screaming. One time of crying and yelling, “NO NO NO NO” for 30 minutes straight {gotta admire that determination}. One time so they could tell me, Here’s what we have found that works…
But instead, he’s a peach at school {which is how they say you want it, as a parent} and his crabapple reers its ugly head at home. And not every day. But we are back in a pattern. And it ain’t pretty. The last two weeks have been rough. But yesterday. Yesterday was good. A glimmer. Of good. And though it took a fair amount of walking on pins and needles, I will take it as a victory.
So I continue to ruin my toddler’s life by being merely being present in it. And the way I see it, I have about 8 months left to do so. Because then, he’ll be four. The very best age that ever did happen to a three year old. An age of awesomeness. And an age where tantrums take a little breather. And I will welcome that age with gifts and trumpets and singing fairies and whatever else the four year old wants. And I just pray that patience continues to befall me so that when they’re teenagers, even if I’m ruining their lives, I feel well-equipped to handle it. And to my children, if you are reading this in 2030, please just know, I wouldn’t change a single moment. Or so that’s what everyone tells me.
So if you ever see me walk out onto my front porch alone, scream at the top of my lungs, and go back inside, please know, I’m not crazy. Or in need of help. I’m just busy ruining my toddler’s life.
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