Age Is Just A Number

Isaac is about 26 months old. I just had to look at the calendar to figure out the month math, because I stopped at 24 months. Lord help me once the fall rolls around and we hit the 30's months.

Anyway, this means a couple things. The most important one being...although I still call him my baby, he's a little boy now. He's a little boy with opinions and a fierce independent streak. Who's two years old. And cutting his back molars.

I refuse to call it the terrible two's. I am choosing to call it the "not so terrific two's" and hope for the best. I was told the pediatrician that there are 2 main components in this phase that attribute to the um...not so terrifc-ness: the inability to effectively communicate wants and needs in an understandable manner and the desire to test their boundaries and limits.

And OH BOY IS IT BECOMING NOT SO TERRIFIC.

I put my high-spirited little guy to bed on Saturday night completely exhausted after our excursion into SF to see friend D and his new puppy Emma, who Isaac calls "En-e-ma." He didn't nap but for 45 minutes. I was exhausted as well. It was an early night for both of us, and I went to bed eager and excited for our day together on Sunday, just me and him.

I can't tell you who woke up in that crib on Sunday morning. It was like a different child.

And since then, we have had screaming fits. Tantrums. Hair pulling (this is mine...I have literally buried my hands in my hair and pulled). Crying (both of us). Red faces. Throwing of things. Confiscation of toys.

Its been a long few days. And I am so happy to be at work, just to have escaped for a blissfull 8 hours.

Sunday was rough. Sunday night was rougher. Isaac didn't nap, but he did go into his crib and played happily for about 2.5 hours. By 8 pm, I was ready to trade him in. Seriously. By the time he went to bed, the house was a wreck. Dinner was cold. There were noodles and goldfish crackers smashed into the sofa cushions. The cats were cowering in fear (I might have shown Isaac how Guiliani likes to play kitty-copter. Which he does, just not with Isaac...I WAS DESPERATE PEOPLE!). I was exhausted, frustrated, and overwhelmed, so I did what any wife and mother would do. I yelled at my husband and was a complete and total a-hole to him. Then I shut myself in the bedroom and screamed into my pillow.

This morning...oh the horror.

I woke up Isaac for school. And like every other morning, he asked for his trucks. I gave him his  two favorites and like every other morning, we put them on his breakfast table. Unlike every other morning, he decided he did not want to eat breakfast or get dressed. He just wanted to play trucks. Sigh. I took the trucks away, turned them off and put them back on the table. 2 seconds later, guess what I heard? After 10 minutes of progressively louder and louder requests, finally, I took them away.

And when I say took them away, I guess I mean I ripped his arms off and beat him with them. Because that is sure what it sounded like.

He laid on the floor and screamed and cried for 20 minutes. When he finally stopped and nibbled some toast, it was time to go. By the time we left for school, his hair was disheveled, eyes were red, nose was running, and he was hungry. And exhausted. Both of us were after our mini-war. I was ready for stiff drink by 8 am.

I know it will get worse before it gets better. I know it will get better. I know every parent goes through this. And he still has his moments, where he sees me visably upset and comes over and says "Mama, what's wrong? What happened? Need a kiss?" and curls up in my lap and cuddles.

He's still my baby...and age is just a number.

I just may need to restock the liquor cabinet more frequently and buy more hats to hide the fact that I am yanking my hair out.