It seems like the terrible twos should start when, well, the child is actually two. Apparently, you do not get a full 24 months to prepare for them. Apparently, you get exactly twenty months and a handful of days. That's it--no more, not less.
Either that or my child has some sort of serious chemical imbalance.
Because the screaming, the random, heart-wrenching screaming and crying and holding onto my leg as I try to walk across the kitchen to make dinner isn't normal for Little Man. But in the last few days he seems to have caught the twoearlyitis disease.
One minute he's fine-- giggles and sweetness and everything wonderful. The next minute, however, he's wailing like a banshee (and not the good kind of banshee), throwing himself around on the flour, and J and I are staring at each other like an alien has just landed in the backyard and we're not sure whether to run or stand and fight. Five minutes or so later, and he's back to smiles and giggles and I can't help but smile when he beams with absolute and very random joy.
It's enough to make anyone crazy. And nothing works. You can't reason with them, you can't talk to them, you can't punish them. He is, quite simply, a raging ball of passion and desire with no direct course and no real way to channel it. So I reach down deep and try to find that inner peace to ride it out. Walking across the kitchen to chop another onion as he clings to my leg, wailing.