Six Ways to Recreate Life With a Toddler


I was sitting here pondering ideas for a blog post, but it was hard to think because my two-year-old was having a teary meltdown on the floor next to me.

Why the meltdown, you ask? Well, it was because I dared offer to cut his waffle into bites. I mean, the audacity!

This was the same waffle that he requested, but then when he saw it going into the toaster, asked if he could have mandarin oranges instead. So I gave him a cup of oranges - which he wanted placed on the counter and not the taaaaaable, Mommmyyyyyy! He picked at the oranges, and then was all, "Where's my waffle?" ... like he hadn't just vetoed it two minutes earlier.

When I finally produced said waffle, he asked for milk. No, chocolate milk. In the LEGO Movie cup. But nooooo! Not the one with Bad Cop! The one with UNI-KITTY!!!!

That's when I realized I needed to look no further for blogging inspiration - I could just write about how toddlers are irrational assholes. Because they totally are. Doubly so when they're sick or sleepy or hungry, which - between the three - is, like, seventy percent of the time.

If you don't have a toddler and would like to know the joys of living with one, allow me to list a few things that are comparable so you can try them out yourself.

- Find a super-grumpy, argumentative old man. Get him rip-roaring whiskey drunk, and then try to get him dressed, stuffed into a coat, and buckled into a car. (Make sure he's still spry enough to put up a fight in order to get the full experience.)

- Get a job as a personal concierge to a celebrity known for ridiculous demands. Expect requests such as putting apple slices back together, going to the grocery store with no pants, and eating mustard - and only mustard - for lunch. If you cannot or will not comply with these demands, heaven help you.

- Spend a few hours with the biggest know-it-all in the world and just nod tiredly as they tell you (in an irritated tone) that you're wrong about everything ... like the sky being blue and the grass being green.

- Find a friend who's willing to volunteer. Bind their wrists together and put mittens on their hands, then ask them to put on their shoes or zip their coat. When you offer assistance, have them scream, "NOOO! I DO IT MYSELF!" (directly into your ear). Accept that you will either a.) be perpetually late until this phase passes, or b.) have to start the leaving-the-house process like half an hour earlier.

- Find someone who barely speaks English. Infuriate them somehow, then try to reason with them. In English.

- Start a personal stylist business. Take on a client who vetoes 95% of the perfectly acceptable clothing you suggest, requesting instead things that are either too small, seasonally inappropriate, or ridiculous (i.e., a dinosaur costume).

And here's the thing about toddlers. Whether it comes at Terrible Two or Traumatic Three (I've had both!), you can pretty much guarantee that even the most easygoing and pleasant of children WILL go through a phase where you wonder if they've been possessed. I swear, a couple of days navigating through life with a stubborn, moody toddler would be a much better tool at preventing teen pregnancy than those fake baby dolls they have to take home.

I'm willing to, you know, rent mine out if anybody wants to test that theory.

At least until he's four.

Comments

  1. Claire Ashley - FacebookFebruary 4, 2015 at 1:10 PM

    I totally agree with that. My 4 year old was wonderful at 2 the moment he turned 3, that was not my child anymore lol. Id be willing to rent out my 4 year old still and now 3 month old. prevention is the goal here for teens. lol great blog thank you for sharing that

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  2. You describe that age perfectly! Even though the last children are in their teens and the others out of the house--- I felt like I was right back at that delightful age with my kiddos... And I gladly turned my thought to my two teens who dress themselves appropriately in shorts (at below freezing), eat only frozen pizza-- "Not THAT kind, Mom," and think a hot water shower comes from an infinite supply in the pipes ("Ten minute showers? Are you KIDDING?") Ah yes, it just gets better and better! ;-) Did I mention that at first I thought I was reading about my ex-husband? :-) Thank you for a wonderful memory-- that I'm glad is only a memory at this point!

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  3. My youngest is in what I call the Fearsome Four stage. The terrible twos and tiresome threes have nothing on the fearsome fours. He has always been a strong willed child, from the moment he was born (eighteen days before my scheduled repeat c-section), and he has not slowed down yet. He loves to do things such as go on food strikes (anywhere from one month to three months) where he will eat, say, grapes for breakfast, saltine crackers for lunch, and might eat a portion of the meat served at dinner. It was fun when the doctor ordered us to start force feeding him when he was a year old (he suddenly gave up all foods but one at nine months old). Trying to force feed a kid who is learning how to hold a utensil and insists on doing it himself? Yeah, it took a whole month to get him to eat again.

    He has a bit of OCD -- not as much as he did -- but watch out if you put his cup on the table 1/8th of an inch from where he thinks it's supposed to go or cut his food into the wrong shape, or his wrath will be in full force. He also has a habit of talking out of the side of the mouth and not fully enunciating his words, so he's hard to understand. Too bad for you. If you don't understand him the first time, he either screams or cries.

    *sigh* Well, at least he now understands that clothes are not just an option, but the only one, and he's a bit forgiving if I give him the wrong cup. I'd like to say it will get better, but no, no it isn't. I love him dearly, but if he'd been born first, he'd be an only child!

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  4. So true! Nicky has this thing about getting so upset if I open his yoghurt he refuses to eat it. A new one must be got so he can open it even though he struggles so much. I actually have to ask permission to help him.

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