Seriously, I love my son. Please don't get me wrong. He is my whole stinking world and I adore him beyond belief.
BUT I am so willing to board him somewhere until he's 4. Maybe 5. I don't know. Whenever it is that this stops.
This, meaning: obstinacy, defiance, selective hearing...ance, hyperness, moodiness, pickiness... just... issue-y. He's an issue-y kid. I'm pretty sure he could be diagnosed with, at any given time, any combination of: sczhizophrenia, bi-polar disorder, OCD, anorexia, and probably senility.
He's brilliant, he's hilarious, he's sweet, he's kind. He's helpful and eager and fun.
I just put him to bed wearing a pj top, khakis, socks and loafers with his Woody hat. To avoid a tantrum. Because he has been up since 8 am and up my fanny the entire time. And I don't have it in me to deal with a tantrum. Because I feel like every single day 98% of my energy goes into Jack-management. To keep him from melting down, to keep him from busting up his sisters, to keep him from being a douche bag. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I don't and I end up listening to grunting noises and being glared at from beneath furrowed brows at best, watching him scream and cry and beat his fists on the floor like a monkey at worst.
Where is the child who would cease misbehavior at the almighty throat-clear, without even needing me to chastise him? What happened to the docile, eager-to-please kiddo who responded so well to positive reinforcement?
Oh, that's right... he turned 3.
I'd like to find the idiot who coined the deceptive term "terrible two's" and beat him over the head with the parenting book that began the chapter on preschoolers with, "...three year olds are, by-and-large, pleasant, lovely children to be around." and then I'd like to water-board him with the buckets of tears shed between me and Jack.
Not that I'm frustrated or anything.
Where is the chapter in the books that begins with, "When you get to age three, consider a medically-induced coma to best cope with the challenges you'll face"? I mean, seriously. If I hear, "I'm hungry! I need some foods!" only to present him with food and be told, "No! It's yucky!" and endure a tantrum over bites of lousy hot dog that amount to about 45 calories one more time, I'm going to put myself in a coma. I think I present the child with about 7 meals a day. I think he eats about 1, total. I am fairly positive that another day of, "Jack, take it easy, keep your hands to yourself, we listen, we share, we keep our hands to ourselves" and I'm going to barf. On him, ideally. Just because it'd be poetic.
I know it gets better. I know he's testing boundaries and trying to ascertain how he fits into the world and I know that it's part of the learning process of a child figuring out how to deal with emotions and how to make good decisions and so on. I get it. I'm not an idiot. But when I've spent the 4th consecutive day without taking a shower listening to the same whiny tone and being demanded to build my 900th mile of train track or Lego house that is deemed insufficient, I just don't care about the psycho-babble crap behind it; I want it to be over. I've never wished my kids' lives away and, to be fair, I'm not wishing the time away, just the behavior. And since I doubt wishing is going to do much good, I spend the other 2% of my emotional energy praying ardently for patience. And wisdom. But mostly patience.
Jack, my love, please figure it out soon for my sanity.
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