I lost it

Last night I brought the girls back from the Pitchfork Festival around 8pm. Friends of ours (another 4 year old Z and her mom) came back with us and they stopped inside our house to pick up a pair of flip-flops Z wanted to give to her buddy.

In the course of handing off the shoes, Z's friend had an accident. She needed fresh clothes. A t-shirt and undies, at the bare minimum. But apparently a puddle on her floor and the prospect of loaning her clothes unhinged Z completely. Yes, she was tired. Hungry too, although she wouldn't admit it. Whining and foot-dragging wouldn't have surprised me. But a tantrum unlike anything I've seen in about 6 months? That I was not prepared for.

And it was embarrassing. But Z's tantrum didn't stop when our friends left. She screamed and cried and carried on about that damn t-shirt for over an hour. Refusing food. Stomping her feet. Pushing away A, who kept trying to pat her reassuringly. Cursing me with "you're a BAD MOMMY" and other hateful, but completely G-rated slurs.

Finally, my reservoir of patience dried up and I lost it. I yelled--nay, ROARED at her. I snatched her up, carried her into her room, dropped her on her bed and told her to STAY THERE.

My blood was boiling and I lost my shit. There's nothing worse than seeing your kid's eyes change from tired/angry/defiant to scared. And she had ever right to be fearful. I didn't hit her, but if I couldn't stop her ridiculous temper tantrum, I wanted to punish her for putting me through it.

Fortunately, a little separation did us good. I put Z in the bath and put a very tired A to bed. In the time it took to read A one board book and tuck her under her blanket, Z stopped crying. She opened her mouth cooperatively for tooth brushing and flossing and curled up against me as I read her a few bedtime stories.

Either Z realized the error of her ways or she's afraid of unleashing the Mean Mommy, because tonight she was a perfect angel.

And so the terrible twos begin

A's second birthday is a little more than a month away, but she's acting more like a two year old every day. She's talking up a storm, dedicating much of her language acquisition to mastering demands and negativity like "no want that," "no like that," "no go bye-bye," "yucky," "messy," "poopy," "pee-pee," "cookie!" "dance!" "no, other one" "cat down!" "uppy!" "help you" (help me), "mocos" (snot), "[Z] come," and "dat's mines!"

When she doesn't get what she wants immediately, she screeches her demand louder and louder. When we calmly inform her that she's not getting a cookie while she eats her noodles or another fruit bar to smear across her face while in the stroller, she scowls fiercely--all big eyes and tucked chin--and lets a small stream of drool fall off her pouty lower lip. If she's pissed enough, she'll lock eyes, narrow them ever so slightly and then throw or drop something in an act of sheer defiance.

The good news is that her tantrums, while overly dramatic, resolve themselves quickly if ignored and moments later she's giggling gleefully as she strews toys across the floor, launches herself from the ottoman onto the couch or stands up on a dining room chair and shakes her tushie. Yeah, she's kind of a little terror.

After

This was just the beginning of a one hour long tantrum.

Have the terrible twos arrived?

Z threw one hell of a tantrum at nap time this afternoon. Apparently limiting her to merely three library books was completely unacceptable. When I came back and offered one more book, she triple freaked out--crying, throwing herself on the bed and on the floor, hugging me and pushing me, all the while screaming "No one book. All the books!"

It took her a full half an hour to realize I wasn't budging. I read her one last book and she closed her eyes.

Why, oh why do they have to make life so difficult? So dramatic? Most of us grown-ups would give our right arm for a daily siesta.