Happy 4th. (Yesterday.) I was on social media channels a few times. I saw a bunch of adorable kids in gingham and stripes watching parades and looking American and perfect.
My kid was awful. Just terrible. He made a three-day-weekend seem like a prison sentence. By Saturday afternoon things were fragile. Sunday evening my marriage was starting to fray. And when we finally reached Monday night, everyone had to retreat to their respective corners so there was no bloodshed. It is a wonder to behold how a single 37 inch person can fuck things up so thoroughly.
The good news (if that’s how we want to categorize it) is that this appears to be age associated and completely predictable. Late two/early threes are notorious for their shittiness. Unfortunately, no amount of warning can adequately prepare you for the psychological and emotional damage that a toddler can exact over a three-day-weekend.
What I struggle with the most is actually how much I struggle. I’m 32 years old. I am a fully grown human being. I have pretty well developed coping skills. I’m good with conflict resolution. I have sound logic and reasoning skills. And my toddler gives ZERO fucks. If my husband and I had a dollar for every time the phrase “walk away. just walk away.” was uttered in our house, we could both retire. And yet for all our chanting walkawaywalkawaywalkawaywalkawaywalkawaywalkaway we can’t actually walk away. We’re locked in some intellectual death match with a tot. I’ve experience more logical and redemptive communication with cats.
And the stubbornness. Oh sweet lord the stubbornness. This is why people of the olden days resorted to physical acts of violence. Because it takes an incredibly well controlled and evolved human being to get to the brink of sanity and not be overcome with the urge to exert physical force over a lesser being. And I’m not even talking about beatings. Even just a well placed flick. Because when your child tells you for the 2736974120382039 time that they WILL NOT CLEAN UP their blocks and you’ve wasted 682 minutes of your day asking, and you’ve taken away everything you thought they held dear, and you’ve reasoned, begged, yelled, threatened and there are still mother fucking blocks all over the floor… your ability to keep your shit together is questionable. Worse than that, when you’ve sacrificed your plans, your desires, your activities in order to do the activity that should most appeal to your child and then they act like a domestic terrorist, you begin to question the very meaning of life.
We’re currently in the stage whereby all perceived offenses are of equal weight in his eyes. Not having the right color juice is as egregious an offense as refusing to allow him to play in the hose or trying to give him away. (Just listing the kinds of things that brought our weekend to its proverbial knees is giving me PTSD.) There’s usually a light whimper, followed by the introduction of a baby voice, which then becomes a fake machine gun cry, that then devolves into a full on melt down. (And then usually one of us walking swiftly out of a public place while our child confirms to single people within earshot that they are the superior species.) The single most terrifying thing about three year olds is that the truest and quickest way to incite a meltdown is to give them EXACTLY what they want. What? What is this you say? Yes. Exactly. Give them exactly what they want and they will most certainly meltdown. Because they hate you.
For example. Aut has been totally into bike riding recently. (We got one of those bike seats that you get when you have a child under 4 and you no longer care about how uncool your life is.) Generally speaking, he loves riding around on the back of the bike, going fun places, seeing new things. So we planned on an awesome bike ride on Monday. We were going to bike up to Marblehead and stare through the gates of yacht clubs at rich people. We told him… and he melted down. He didn’t want to bike ride. Turns out, he’d found a long-forgotten set of paints in his cubby and all he wanted to do in the whole world was paint. (Painting is a cruel invention by people who hate parents.) After much hmming and hawing, we consented. He could paint outside. In his underwear.
We went outside. It was beautiful out. We set up a drop cloth, staple gunned a canvas to the fence, got out the paints and brushes, slathered sunscreen on him. And feeling like THE BEST PARENTS IN THE WHOLE WORLD we set him loose on his artistic endeavors. Which lasted about 14 seconds.
The sun is too sunny and it’s on my head. We got him a baseball cap.
I need something different for my eyes. (Because THE BRIM OF THE HAT WAS NOT SUFFICIENT.) We got him his sunglasses.
I’m thirsty. We made him hold out but eventually realized this was not the one to nail him on when it was 90 degrees outside. Got him water.
I need different paints. Go fuck yourself.
I want to paint on the fence. Not on your life.
I need to wipe my hands. Shouldn’t have stuck both hands in the paint.
I want to do yoga with Mups. No, you’re painting.
I want to cut all my fingers off in the air conditioner compressor. Nope. [wailing]
I don’t like painting. Well, too bad. We got this all set up. You’re gonna paint. [more wailing]
I need a snack. We just had breakfast. You’re fine. [repeated slower and screaming I. NEED. A. SNACK.]
The sun is too hot. Sorry, we’ll talk to the solar system about that.
I need Buzz Lightyear. Buzz is napping upstairs. [whimpering, but surprisingly no wailing]
I really want to stick my entire hand into the A/C compressor. Ask me again and I’ll probably let you.
I need to go into the basement to get something. No you don’t. [full-on, mind blowing meltdown]
I want to go for a bike ride. You’re dead to me.
I don’t want to exaggerate, so I’ll say this was all within the span of about 11 minutes. Conservatively I’d say six tantrums and one meltdown in 11 minutes. Because we were doing exactly what he begged us to let him do.
And like I said, the very worst part is how ill prepared we are to cope. It’s impossible to ignore, but equally as impossible to correct. Stupidly I allow myself to imagine these scenarios whereby we’re doing these things happily and peacefully as a family. The hubs is drinking coffee on the porch, I’m doing yoga on the driveway, Aut is painting like the gifted painter we will joyfully discover he is. But it’s never anything like that. It’s screaming and whining and trying not to lose our shit at how unbelievably insufferable he can make 15 minutes in the sunshine. And then the guilt when he says something like “why do you always yell?” And I feel so terrible but I also want to be like “why do you always try to make me insane?” But I know he’s 3 and he doesn’t know why he does it. He just does. And my job as his mother is to cope. And get through it.
And I don’t want to wish his life away. I don’t want him to grow up too fast. And inevitably there’s some gray haired woman (as there was this weekend) who says “enjoy every moment” at exactly the wrong time. And I get it. I know she’s wistful and hindsight is rosey. But these moments are not enjoyable. They’re trying and terrible. They make you question yourself. They push you to dark places where you have to look hard at yourself. And that’s an unexpectedly difficult part of parenting– seeing yourself through your child’s eyes. Because every now and then, you won’t like the person you see. But this too shall pass. And tantrums about paints and Buzz Lightyear will be replaced by heartbreak and humiliation and things that will make us long for the days that the absence of Buzz was the most meltdown-worth part of the day.
But for now, we cope. We parent. We continue onward. Knowing they won’t be 3 forever… for better or worse.
5 thoughts on “My kid was a nightmare. And other true stories.”
my son is going to be 2 in September so we’re a little bit behind you guys, but this is 100% accurate for our weekend. I’m selfishly hoping that means that he is advanced in the tantrum stage and not that we have another year of this…
thank you for writing this because it’s my reality right now and it feels good to know I’m not the only one.
I don’t want to tell you the actual truth because I think ignorance really is bliss in this situation. BUT we had some pretty epically terrible stuff around two, but it really did get better for the middle six months between two and three. Headed towards three (in two months), it’s been turned up to 11. Hang in there. You’re not even a little bit alone.
…bye, bye Caroline – Mommy and Daddy are going on a bike ride to have a good time and you are staying here with Mrs. Danvers. We’re sorry you don’t want to go. Poof! Mrs. Danvers endures all and you get to continue with your plans!
It’s a tough phase, maybe the worst. Just survive it, and you’ll be fine.
With that said, I will say this: In every conflict with your child, someone learns who’s boss. It’s negotiating with terrorists. While the moral argument to just cave and get through the day without killing someone is entirely rational and defensible, I can say after 50 years of cumulative parenting that doing so establishes a precedent in their minds that is very hard to un-make. If you teach them you will cave if they just complain hard enough, you will spend the next 15 years or so listening to them complain every time you say no.
Pick your fights. But the only real choice is to fight now over small things, or later over big ones.
Offered in the spirit of support and humility. We’ve all been there, it’s part of the initiation. Hang in there, it’s not forever.
I have four kids and my youngest just turned 18. So far, I have yet to say to a parent of a toddler, “Cherish these moments.” I’m one of those apparently rare mothers who started liking her kids around age 10 :-). I thank my lucky stars every week that I don’t have toddlers any more and I pray that none of my kids makes me a grandmother.