So, I’ve been a bad blogger for the last couple weeks. [Slaps own hand] I can blame Peter’s super-annoying work travel (he’s flying back from three nights in Philadelphia as we speak); a wicked case of seasonal allergies (which I never had until last spring); lots going on with work (if you’re a camper, you won’t be able to put the July issue of Today’s Parent down); planning my best friend forever’s shower/bachelorette/just-a-small-get-together-at-my-filthy-house; revelling in the exciting news of wee babies on the way — friends’ babies…I ain’t pregnant; my anxiety and stress levels rising because of both sensical and non-sensical things; and helping in Addy’s class (note to self: the kindergarten neighbourhood walk was fun until I almost fell in a mud puddle while trying to change my kid’s shoes — she had them on the wrong feet — while walking along the muddiest ravine path you’ve ever seen). I can blame all those things. But I’d rather blame Peyton.
Take a look at the picture above. Look at how gorgeous my little Peypee’s face is. She’s so beautiful. (OK, I’m bragging, but bear with me.) Everyone tells us how pretty she is. She’s bloody adorable. However, as both Peter and I have mentioned in the past, she’s evil. (Well, that’s harsh. She’s evil right now. I don’t actually think she’s bad to the bone…)
It doesn’t look like Peyton’s Terrible Twos are slowing down. I fear we’re in for the Tumultuous Threes. Then, knowing her, we’ll probably enter the F-word Fours shortly thereafter. Is it possible that because she’s been such a mean, miserable, annoying little kid, she’ll be a super-sweet, neat and tidy, agreeable teenager who listens to every word we say? This (farfetched) thought keeps me going. If she’s not telling me that she doesn’t love me, she’s running amok in the house — purposely trashing things, purposely pouring drinks on my hardwood floors, purposely slamming doors, purposely grabbing (insert stupid toy here) right out of her sister’s hand before taking off down the hall — smiling and laughing maniacally the whole time.
She’s worse at bedtime. Light on. Light off. Covers on. Covers off. Pick me up. Put me down. Hug me. Don’t touch me. I love you. I don’t love you. Scream. Cry. Laugh. Scream.
I’ll admit that sometimes I want to put her outside for the night like Fred Flintstone used to do with that smart-aleck sabre-tooth tiger. (That cat — like Peyton — ruled the roost.)
But then I look at that gorgeous little face — that adorable (albeit kind of diabolical) smile.
So enough of the complaining. Instead of losing my temper/marbles trying to deal with this oh-so-awful phase, I’m going to embrace it. She’ll never be two again (thank goodness!), so I might as well look on the bright side.
Instead of thinking about humane ways to cage her, I’m going to squeeze those cheeks every time she lovingly tells me she wants to play hairdresser with me, then kung-fu-grips my hair until she pulls out curls, brings tears to my eyes, and giggles hysterically about the whole thing.
… I’m going to hug her when we have this discussion: (me) “Peyps, saying that you don’t love Mommy isn’t nice. Do you want Mommy to be upset and cry?” (monster) “Yes. Cry. Right now.”
…I’m going to kiss her chubby thighs when she purposely kicks the crap out of and bruises me while I’m trying to put on her Pull-Up/change her pants/cuddle with her in bed, etc.
…I’m going to show her this particular blog post when she has a two-year-old of her own one day who’s a terror and she’s at her wits’ end and wants to toss her own little Lucifer out a window.
Anyone have any really great strategies to cope with the terrible twos? (That’s kind of like asking if anyone’s found the Fountain of Youth, right?) But really. Is it too much to ask? I’ll take any and all tips on how to handle a tough toddler. Tweet me @lisavandegeyn.
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