I read on another blog (I think it may have been Incoherent Ramblings of a Punk in Suburbia, but I’m not positive) that two-year olds may be terrible, but three-year olds are assholes. It’s true. Peanut is generally a sweet, affectionate child, but man, he often has a rotten attitude.
We’re apparently revisiting the time of tantrums. He’s honed his tantruming into a fine art. We visited Dinosaur World a couple of weeks ago. I knew I was in for trouble when he started dozing on the way there. He’d close his eyes, head bob, and pop his eyes open and ask “Arewethereyetarewethereyet?” This went on until indeed, we were there. We stayed and played for a couple of hours. He held my hand near the scary T. rex model. He dug in the boneyard sand. He loved the scary, designed-for-older kids playground and needed minimal spotting from me to make sure he didn’t fall off any of the 5+ foot-high equipment. I gave him several warnings that departure time was looming, gave him a final “last time” on one of the rickety climbing things, then told him it was time to go. Ohmygod. He screamed. He balled his fists and went rigid. And screamed even louder. I had to carry/drag his little banshee ass outta there. He cried and yelled for another 20 minutes of the ride home until he finally succumbed to sleep.
We had a repeat over using the potty a couple mornings ago and again that night over brushing his teeth/putting on jammies.
I’ve also been called “crusty booger” and “You crack…crack of BUTT” (OK, the phrasing on that was hilarious).
When my tired, acid-refluxy, hormonal pregnant ass is ready to sell him to the Gypsies, he says: “I need to give you another hug and kiss. And kiss my baby.” Twice.