I really feel like living with a 2 year old is like living under the oppressive regime of a dictator *. When they come into power everyone is so excited! Change is good! They are so happy and fun and when you hear them talk you feel like you could listen for hours. Then the tide turns….you have done something to anger the dictator and instead of acting rationally, he starts screaming, throws himself on the floor and all hell breaks loose. Plus he wanst to talk all the time. No matter if you are talking or if you don’t want to hear him. Talking to your spouse could highly anger the dictator. But once you bow to his demands you are immediately back in his good graces, all seems to be forgotten and you just hold your breath and pray that you can keep him happy.
*Note: This blog post could be very offensive to anyone who has lived under the regime of a dictator. Or to my child once he can read. But as I have said before, he can talk to me when he is the parent of a two year old and if I am wrong… well, seriously people, I am not wrong.
So this is just a one hour snipit of my life with mini-Stalin:
4:45 Pick up Zach from school. He is thrilled to see me! Runs towards me and hops on into the car. We chat about his day, he has pulled hair (again). We talk about it, we sing, the world is golden.
5:00 We hit the pet store to get food for Norman. He is darling, wanting to look at the birds and fish, sits super nicely in the cart and beams at the people around him. Doesn’t really want to leave, but agrees that Norman is hungry and we need to take him his food.
5:25 Someone has parked too close to me so I have to put him in the car from the other side and have him climb into his seat. This is initially met with glee and joy, laughing and chatting with me as I load up the dog food.
5:26 The joy is gone and he is furious that I am serious about him having to sit in his seat. I squeeze between the idiot car next to me (with my 6 months preggers belly) telling him to either get in the seat or I will put him in the seat, because I am my mother. Finally he gets in and we are off
5:30 I have to break the news that we don’t have time to go to the park. We have to get home so he can eat by 6 and save us another meltdown. Cries of “Park, I go park! No home, Mommy, no home!” happen all the way home until I appease him with some applesauce. But he is still not fully happy with me.
5:45 We get home and he is happy once again, to play “tennis” with my tennis racket and tennis ball by hitting it along the ground.
5:46 Breaks down into hysterics that I cannot do the same with the plastic bowling pin he has given me for my racket since I also need to sit down.
5:50 Calms down enough when I get the tennis ball out from under the couch for him with his “help”
5:55 Throws down both the racket and ball saying “I ready” in response to my “Are you ready for dinner now?” question but immediately starts crying when he sees that his spaghetti is made with penne pasta not angel hair.
I will not bore you will the next hour when he didn’t want to take a bath, then did not want to get OUT of the bath; he didn’t want to put on his diaper, didn’t like the pajamas I picked but was then very pleased to read on the “big bed”.
The only saving grace in our lives under this regime is the sweetness of putting him to bed. He and I rock and whisper to each other about our day. What we liked, what we are going to work on for tomorrow (usually hair pulling and napping). His little head is resting on my shoulder and he just gazes at me with those big, big eyes and I forget that I wanted to run away screaming.
Then when I put him in bed we discuss what he is having for breakfast the next morning. It is always “I have waffles, milk, water AND juice. AND JUICE MOMMY!”
He never has juice. But every night I tell him that he will. Maybe this is why the dictator cuts me no slack…