Yes. My two-year-old, cute-as-a-button, blond-hair-and-blue-eyed miracle child has turned into a half-pint destruction machine. Let me explain.
Julian is generally a wonderful child. He's happy, he's smart, he's cheerful, he's funny, and he's charming. The child I got out of bed this morning was not. From the moment this miniature version of my husband hit the living room, he was on a mission . . . a mission that involved terrorizing the dog, bouncing off the furniture, tearing down the blinds, throwing the remote controls, pulling the DVD cases off the shelf, attempting to pee on the bathroom floor (a plan that Mommy quickly foiled), and trying to hang-glide with a blanket off the sofa. Oh, and this was all within the first hour he was out of bed . . . at 8AM.
I am not the disciplinarian in our family. That job is typically left up to my darling husband; however, based on our current living situation (and by that I mean the continent between us . . . leading to the ocean between us . . . for the next year), I have taken on the role of "Big Mean Mama."
My first attempt at nipping the destruction in the bud was to send him to his room. Have you ever had a toddler laugh in your face and accuse you of bluffing? As of this morning, I have. When he realized I was not bluffing, he then told me that I'm "unfair" (a term he learned from watching Charlotte's Web). Less than a minute later, I heard him playing with his toys . . . which I then had to take away (because what kind of punishment is a "time out" if you can sit in your room and play?) . . . and placed him back on his bed.
His next move surprised me greatly. In fact, almost 12 hours later, I'm still having a difficult time trying to decipher how exactly it happened. I turned away from my resident hurricane, only to have him leap onto my back. Mind you, this child is in a twin bed. I am five-foot-nine. He was hanging on my shoulders. Attempt now - if you will - to picture how this could have possibly happened.
That little acrobatic move sent me into "Really Mean Mama" mode, which ended with a swat on the butt . . . some tears . . . and an apology. All from me. Yes. After I tried (again) to discipline Julian, he decided it would be funny to smack my hind-end and mock my attempts at making him behave. I - being the tough cookie that I am - broke down into tears of frustration. And as if that wasn't enough, I then apologized to the little maniac for trying to make him behave.
(Three days down. Only 362 to go.)
After the tears, I sat Julian down for lunch. He ate, and actually began to calm down. I was beginning to think that I may be catching a break (four hours later). Shame on me for thinking. Once his food digested, he decided to tell me he had to poop . . . and then run away from me in order to avoid going to the bathroom. While changing his diaper, he decided it would be funny to try and run again, causing his baby-sized "nuggets" of feces to fall onto the bathroom floor. (Did you know poop bounces if it's the right consistency? I found that out today as well!) Once I had that mess cleaned up, I did what any self-respecting mother would do when faced with a terrorizing child . . . I called my mommy.
Grandma's are great. Especially when they bribe your child with ice cream, bring said ice cream to your house, feed it to said child, and then leave. I'll give her some credit though, Julian was calm for the 15 minutes she was here. But the moment Mamaw left, Hurricane Julian hit with all his fury . . . destroying what was left of the living room, and successfully traumatizing the dog.
Thankfully, as hurricanes do, his power eventually subsided. I cleaned up the ruins left behind by the my tiny natural disaster, and then I decided to take advantage of the "eye of the storm." I picked up the car for a little trip . . . to Grandma's house.
Let's recap today's lessons:
- Hurricanes are entirely possible in the Midwest . . . if you live in a household with a toddler.
- Toddlers are capable of mind-bending acrobatics when hopped up on pure evil.
- No matter how "child friendly" you think your home is, your child will prove you wrong.
- Poop bounces.
And finally, the biggest lesson of all: grandmas are more evil than toddlers.
Again I say . . . three days down, 362 to go.
