Maaaaaaax!
(This post has been sitting in my drafts box for weeks, waiting for completion.)
That is the irritated, whining complaint I hear eight thousand times a day from the two brothers – and often myself – who have the misfortune of living with this little maniacal tyrant.
So it turns out I spoke too soon. That two year-old funk? Still here, actually. Still raging on.
(I know, looks can be deceiving.)
This little headstrong “I do everything by myself and will automatically recoil from any choice selected without my painstakingly slow and irrational input” stinker continues to try my patience and force a refinement of my parenting skills. To be honest, I’ve never had too much trouble with the “terrible twos.” At that age, I was still pretty capable of pulling the wool over their eyes, convincing them that the option I wanted them to choose was obviously the best, most fun, option. Temper tantrums about leaving the park could be resolved as simply as saying “Say goodbye to the park.” Bam, mindset changed, crisis averted. But not with Max. Oh no.
This one is a pistol. The other morning he was so pissed that Mark wiped his butt instead of me, he got back on the toilet and forced out an additional turd just so I could have the privilege of taking a turn, too.
He will not be deterred. He will not let up. He will not let any perceived injustice stand. And he no longer naps (all of the parents in the audience just let out a horrified gasp!).
But I guess we’ll keep him. That cow-licked do is pretty irresistible, after all. Even his ever-peeking butt crack is cute.
*** Edited to add (though hopefully without jinxing it): Again we seem to have emerged, semi-triumphant (for you are never entirely triumphant in the parenting gig), from the abyss of awfulness. Tonight, at bedtime, he told me: “You’re my best friend, mama. We like each other, huh?” Indeed.
