The boy is now two. The Terrible Twos.Â as they’re commonly known, have definitely hit our house.
At two, he’s a little man full of big emotions, and he’s not half shy about sharing them. It can be anything – the wrong banana, the wrong episode of Fireman Sam, the thing he’s just asked for. He flip flops between what parent he MUST have – something we initially blamed on his Dada’s arrival back from work travel, but that’s old news now. In our more paranoid moments (or mine, rather), he hates us, resents us, thinks we’re doing a crappy job and is one wrong step away from packing a bag and heading off with the circus. Believe me kiddo, I may get there before you.
It’s like dealing with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. One minute I’ve got this wonderful, affectionate child who pulls you in for an “ug” and big sloppy kisses, asking to be pulled up onto your lap for cuddles while Facebooking. He idolises his Daddy, asking for equal sprays of his aftershave and such things as to be exactly like him. I can see he’s learning so much every day, leaving his babyish bits behind him as he becomes a walking, talking, seat-putting-down (YES!) little man. It’s a lot for his brain to cope with, information overload at times. That’s when the demon side comes out – which sounds awful, but it’s like a switch is being flipped. He’s destructive. He’s loud. He slaps, and laughs at the idea of us not wanting to be slapped. He climbs up on things that are dangerous, shouting “Get DOWN” to us, mocking our warnings to be careful and to come down from those heights. He refuses to go to sleep alone but sees bedtime as a playtime, in which to probably beat Mammy up. Not a fun experience for anyone.
So much of this is about my attitude, and I think that is what is most frustrating of all. I know he’s only two, he isn’t being malicious, he’s simply testing boundaries because THAT IS WHAT TWO YEAR OLDS DO. I know that a lot of the time he’s a great little kid – he’s funny, caring and mad to learn more about the world around him. I don’t wish to wish the time away, but I do some days find myself willing the clock to hit 6.30, the earliest feasible time I can start the whole bedtime routine without him being awake at 4am. I know I should be cherishing the days I get to spend at home with him, but it’s so bloody hard sometimes when I’m hearing the word “Mam” for the 6 billionth time in an hour and all I want to do is pee on my own, and not walk out to find the living room looking like a Natural Disaster of Sky News proportions has hit. Hurricane E. I’m realising that the solution to these things is not at the end of a biscuit tin, and that heading out for long walks certainly helps with my own mental state, but it’s not always an option in this wet and rainy country of ours. However, if one more person tells me he’s just “expressing” himself when he’s tantrumming and breaking things, the biscuit tin may well be cracked out.
I know this too shall pass, and that the days are long but the years are short. I know I should be cherishing these years. The Mammy guilt is real here. I just want this phase to be over, the defiance, the walking on eggshells, the larger than life rioting when something doesn’t go his way.
Is that so wrong?