Aimee Horton

I’m not going to beat about the bush.  The terrible twos suck.

That’s right, currently my laughing chubby monkey is going through his least endearing stage.  It’s difficult isn’t it? When you have one that’s been through it, but you manage to block it out?  Then you have another child, it’s beautiful, it’s cute, it’s better behaved as a baby then the first one was (is that just it’s personality or is it because you’re more exhausted laid back second time ‘round?).  Then all of a sudden you realise you’re in full on terrible twos.  And let’s just get this out in the open; it’s not terrible it’s DUCKING awful.

It’s been building for a while, I’ve talked tantrums, I’ve talked about not bending, I’ve talked about kicking and screaming, but all of a sudden that’s it, and the thing is, unlike the previous two years, I’ve run out of things which cause me to be forgiving.

I mean, does he smile for the first time when he’s two? No. Does he role over or learn to clap?  Crawl, sit up, take his first tentative first steps. Does he say Mumma for the same time with that look of love in his eyes? Does he heck.  His vocabulary growth is no longer cute, it’s no longer endearing, it’s all “MINEEEE” and “NOOOOOOO” and “GITTTTT DOOOWWWNNNN”.  He doesn’t mix a mean gin and tonic and go to the toilet by himself.  He poohs on the floor and hits me when I suggest it’s time to do anything other then play trains.

Yesterday was possibly one of the worst parenting days I’ve ever had.  There. I’ve said it.  I didn’t enjoy one moment of yesterday.  Oh, no, that’s a lie.  I did. I enjoyed the bit where I sunk down onto the bed and Matthew took one look at me and brought up a bottle (or two) of wine.

He’s bored, and frustrated, I GET THAT.  It’s great that he wants to be independent, but not when it comes to staying in a nappy which hangs down between his knees all day.  Not when we need to get dressed.  PLUS, he only wants to be independent when I need him to do something, the rest of the time he clings to my leg.  Yanking my hand, screaming and grabbing my nose, trying to pull me off the toilet, and before you say it, yes I know I could lock the door but then he’d be hammering on it, hanging off the handle, and I end up getting stage fright.  THE PRESSURE IS JUST TOO MUCH!

I’m bored of trains.  There’s only so many times I can exclaim at him crashing it into a car and bringing it off the rails.  There’s only so many times I can build the best track in the world only for him to tear it apart.  So I suggest alternatives.

“Larry, do you want to do drawing?”  “NOOOOOOOOOO”

“Larry, do you want to do some play dough?” “NOOOOOOOOOO”

“Larry, do you want to go to the park and play on the slide?” “NOOOOOO”

“Larry, do you want to make some cakes?” “NOOOOO CHOOO CHOOOO JUST CHOOO CHOOOO”

So that’s what we end up doing.  Until I wander off to clean the bathroom, put a load of washing in, but then I suffer the mother-ducking tantrum from hell.  It results in 45 minutes of hall to-ing and fro-ing, hitting and screaming.

And yes, PERHAPS I shouldn’t film/photograph these sessions, perhaps he would be less full of rage if instead of pointing and laughing I just let it go, but you know what, if you don’t laugh you cry right?

The thing is, when we decided it would be a good idea to have a second child,  one to keep the other one company, The Beast hadn’t even gone through the terrible twos yet! He’d come out of the newborn pain, he was sleeping, he was funny, he was charming, engaging, loveable.  By the time he hit the refusing to go into his pushchair, but not actually wanting to walk stage it was too late, I was huge. THERE WAS NO GOING BACK.

So now, I’m fully aware of what’s coming.  I know how the next few years months are going to pan out.  I know that it’s only going to get worse before it gets better.  Terrible Two’s, Three-nagers, THREE YEARS UNTIL HE STARTS SCHOOL.  I’m steeling myself for the pain.  Not just potty training hell.  But (numerous) daily visits to the hall, refusal to eat anything that’s put in front of him, having to walk across the playground with him tucked under my arm him hitting my bottom because he wants to stay in the classroom with his older brought (trust me Monkey, if I could leave you there I would), having to race after him across the supermarket/car park, as he legs it as quick as a flash after leading you into a false sense of security by walking nicely holding your hand pointing out certain landmarks.  The getting dressed/getting undressed debacle, the fibbing, the having to text your friend to apologise for it taking TWENTY BLOODY MINUTES to make it out of the front door.  The loss of the pushchair, resulting in your child’s sudden inability to use their legs, the books being pulled off shelves and thrown onto the floor, the head bent on chest, the soul shattering sobbing (them and me), after a lying on the floor kicking and screaming, before the realisation that a favourite toy has been confiscated.

Pass the gin.