Posted on | June 6, 2012 | 10 Comments
Sully is a brilliant child. Scary smart. He remembers things from months and months ago. He recognizes landmarks, always remembers names, sings songs, tells jokes, counts to twenty, and is learning his ABC’s. He picks up on everything, which means we’ve had to work extra hard to watch our language every since hearing him say, “Well, damnit!” after not being able to screw a lid on a coffee mug. He’s funny. He’s incredibly sweet and sensitive. He is so, so loving.
And these days? He’s a hot mess of toddler emotion.
He’s moody. He’s stubborn. He’s full of angst over things like orange Fruit Loops and a green car instead of the blue one.
And also, I’m pretty sure he hates my guts.
Every day is basically a full nine rounds boxing match in which I am the consistent loser. He and Arlo fight over toys. He hits the dog. He throws his food. He blows raspberries full of orange juice all over my face. You know. Toddler things. And in turn, I count 1-2-3, I try time-out, I pop a hand when he reaches for the electrical socket after dunking it in a doggie bowl of water. He screams as loud as he can in the car and wakes up Arlo. He throws himself to the ground when told, “No.” I try to pick our battles because otherwise, we would be fighting. All. Day. Long.
Whenever he has the option of being with me or virtually anyone else in the world? He chooses the other person. It’s beyond depressing. If it weren’t for those brief moments when he lays his head on my shoulder and says, “I wuv you, Mommy,” before asking for a cookie, I might just cry. Luckily, he’s also super sweet to pretty much everyone else he knows (Or doesn’t know. Kid is notorious for approaching strangers in Target), so no one else has suggested I lock him in his room for the next year. Yet.
He and Arlo are best friends and worst enemies. Already, they wrestle over everything day-in and day-out. They fight for my attention, and Sully doesn’t even like me most of the time.He just can’t stand Arlo to be around me, and vice versa. They squeal at each other in brotherly delight, and then Sully hits Arlo over the head with a Tonka Truck and it’s all over. I’m tremble at the thought of how they will be this time next year. I’ll have a three-and-a-half-year-old and a two-year-old. Ohemgee. Because apparently there’s this weird thing that happens right around eighteen months. Your sweet, little baby turns into a monster 50% of the time (and let’s be real, sometimes more often than that), and you’re left wondering how they’re able to make their head spin around that way. I look at our Arlo, who is already scrappy, and fear I’m in for the worst.
Yes, this age is one of wonder and excitement. New things are learned every day. New words spoken. New sights seen. And patience is slowly worn down, one tossed toy at a time. The age of fun and pains in the ass.