Mine, Mine, Mine

by Cookie

So here we go.

Not the labour.  Because apparently this child will continue to grow in me until he is a calcified mummy like that woman in Africa who gestated for like 40 years.  Thanks for that, by the way, Bestie.

Here we go with “Mine mine mine”.  Yes.  Destroyer has learned to say the magic word.  Everything is “mine”.  It’s actually super cute until you are trying to actually do anything productive around the house, or make a phone call.  The object could be laying around the house for days, but as soon as I need to use it.  It’s “mine”

Oh and super fucking duper, she is discovering just how cool temper tantrums are.  Cool for her, anyway.  Did you know that it is possible for a child of this age  to dissolve into the mother of all fits in about 12 nanoseconds?  You probably did know that, because you probably don’t suck at this as much as I do.

So yesterday, she is playing happily as a clam with one of those giant exercise balls.  Until all of a sudden she decided she must instantly go outside.  Ok.  Cool.  Get your hat and let’s go.

Oh but mommy, you fucking retard.  We can’t go to the backyard through that door.  We must go through the front door, through the garage and….oh wait.  I don’t want to go in the backyard at all.  I want to go for a walk.  In that person’s yard.  NO?

Then I’ll throw myself down in the middle of the street and shit myself.

Fucking. Toddlers.

We were having a perfectly wonderful day.  Daddy was off, the weather was nice.  And then all of a sudden, around 4:30, someone’s mood turned foul.  The dissolved into to anger management for two year olds.   And it royally sucked.

So we did what any reasonable parent would do.  We put It in It’s room.  Mostly because we didn’t want to listen to the whine/cry/scream thing anymore, but also to give the poor child some space.  I suppose it was kind of like a time out.  But not really, because I don’t believe in time outs, per say.  And seeing as I know everything about parenting, you should pay close attention to my commentary here.

So. Do you folks have one of those “time out” chairs someone in the living room?  And how the hell do you get a screaming, kicking, monster of a child to sit on one for a time out?  More importantly, why the fuck would you try?Doesn’t it just make it worse?

Because as far as I can tell, at this age, the time out is more for me than for her.  I put her in her room and let her have at it, and she usually calms down in about 10 minutes or so.  And so do I.  Because if it weren’t for this, I’m not sure I could have restrained myself from throwing a stuffed animal at my child’s head.  I’m too pregnant for tantrums. And way too sober.

So, kids. Tell me your tantrum taming secrets.  Besides food, of course. That one I’m familiar with. The other day I avoided one in Safeway by snagging a bag of cookies off the shelf and opening it at the meat counter.  But all other advice is welcome.

Just don’t be douchey about it.