I’ve entered a new world of parenting. A world where tantrums are thrown on the heels of laughter and objects are being hurled across the room at a surprising speed given the offender is barely three and a half feet tall and not even two years old.
Morgan, God bless her, skipped by this stage. Sure, she pitched her fair share of fits, but it was usually because I dared move her gaggle of naked Barbies off the couch because I wanted to park my ass on it. Or, her fits were thrown because she dropped her sippy cup and she just wanted the world to know she was pissed.
Jonah….sweet, blond haired, giggly faced Jonah…I don’t even know what to say.
Oh wait. Yes, I do. HOLY EFFEN SHIT! This kid is six weeks and change from turning two and already giving me a run for my money. Seemingly overnight, a switch was flipped. We went to bed one night with a mostly agreeable, happy go lucky toddler and woke up to Satan’s Spawn. On speed. With a can of Red Bull as a chaser.
He will be laughing and screeching while playing with Daddy one minute and thirty-two seconds later, he is chucking whatever toy is within reach across the room, while giving you, what I can only describe as, The Look of Hatred. When giving you the look, I just know he is secretly plotting my demise.
His new love is throwing and hitting. While sitting with his sister last night, looking at a book, he glanced up at her and then stared at her. He then reached out and swatted her on the side of the head. Morgan, being a girl and riding the Drama Coaster, began bellowing as if her brother had clocked her with a cast iron skillet. Twice. Jonah, meanwhile, sat there with his hands folded in his lap, staring at her as if to say “Why you freaking out?” As I crossed the room to remove him from his spot and put him in a timeout, he heaved this big sigh and covered his eyes with his chubby toddler hands. He knew. He knew he was in trouble.
I admit…my first reaction when he decks someone is to crack his hand and tell him NO HITTING. But, isn’t that a little…um…contradictory? “Jonah…sweet boy…do not hit your sister. It’s not okay and I am going to teach you this by slapping your hand, mmmmkay?” What the what?! So, time out it is! And what is time out? I’ll tell you what time out is…
…it’s hauling a thirty-three pound (yeah..he’s a tree trunk…what of it?), almost two year old, who suddenly has bones made of Jell-O to the couch and sitting him down. It is then being IN HIS FACE and sternly telling him a) that whatever he did THIS time is NOT a good thing and b) he is now going to sit. This is followed by sitting in front of him, my back to him, and pretending the episode of Strawberry Shortcake that is on is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen, all the while Jell-O boy is flopping around back there like a Beluga whale washed upon the beach. It is readjusting him so he is sitting up, while he screeches like a banshee (thereby causing my eardrums to vibrate and feel as if they will shatter) and removing his puffy baby foot from between two ribs because he is PISSED and you ARE going to be made aware of it.
After two minutes has passed (two minutes my ASS! Feels more like two weeks, two days, two hours and twenty two seconds!), he is AGAIN told that ______(insert original offense) is NOT what we do and to go apologize to his victim. This, my friends, is met with another huge, heaving sigh and his eyes closing for an extended blink as if he can’t even BELIEVE he has to deal with us jackasses! He is freed from his spot and I am left a sweaty mess with a sore rib cage.
Time out can bite it.
My boy, I believe, has decided to partake in a career for Major League Baseball. He, apparently, has heard there will be a shortage of pitchers in the year 2032 so, young Jonah has decided to work on his pitching arm now. When he takes the field at Yankee Stadium at the strapping age of 22, I will be extremely impressed when he hurls a curve ball at 98mph. Right now, however, at the age of almost 2, I am the opposite of impressed. In fact, I am so UNimpressed, I am no longer in the same State.
His favorite thing to launch his his pacifier. At first, I’d react by
screeching informing him we do NOT throw. This would be met with the infamous heaved sigh of disgust (him) and the stomping of feet in the other direction (me). Now, when an object is launched, I retrieve it and put it where he can see it, but he can’t reach it. I mumble something about “now you lost it” and go about my business. This, too, is met with the sigh (him) and the stomping of feet (also him) in the other direction.
It’s like living with a crazy person! Morgan has decided to play in her room 90% of the time because she’s tired of him whacking her in the head and of him wrecking whatever it is she was playing with. For this I feel bad because she’s waaaaay upstairs and not with us. I feel bad that her brother’s reign of Hell is the reason for this. I also feel bad that it’s not socially acceptable to commence drinking at 9am. One never knows what kind of mood His Majesty will be in or what will trigger the jackassery behavior. I’m tempted to keep track of what happens when said behavior begins, but I know I will spend 99% of my time following the little heathen around and documenting everything from what he was playing with, to what show was on, to what he was wearing to what the barometric pressure was and where the planets were aligned at that precise moment and sweet hell…I don’t have that kind of time!
I am at a bit of a loss as to what to do. Apparently, smacking the nastiness out of him and being a closet drunk by 9am are not acceptable methods of handling this. Timeout and taking things away are my only weapons and this kid doesn’t give a SHITE about either of these. Timeout? Good, he says, two minutes for me to sit here and hate you silently! Taking away my pacifier? Have fun with that…I’ll just practice my lung strengthening exercises for a bit! Oh, I can’t play with the blocks anymore because I flung them across the room? That’s cool…I’ll play with my fire trucks, instead.
I love this kid so very, very much. I’m trying to remember this, too, shall pass and in the blink of an eye, he’ll be holed up in his room texting his stoner friend about how his parents suck. In the meantime, though, send wine! And earplugs! And perhaps a padded tank top to protect my increasingly sore ribs?