Things in the Matic household have been…interesting. The last few weeks reminded me of when I went to Alaska and saw Mt.McKinley. We were there in June amidst awful weather, and one day, someone said, “Go down to the end of the road and see Mt. McKinley. The fog has finally lifted from it and it’s spectacular.” As I’m walking down the road, though, I’m grumbling something about how in the heck am I going to be able to tell which dang mountain it is, since there are nothing BUT snow-capped, huge mountains around here, being that I’m smack dab in the middle of a mountain range, and then? THERE IT IS: a huge, towering completely snow-covered mountain, dwarfing everything in sight, and upon reflecting on it later, I thought “Yeah, I guess you can’t really miss that, huh?” Sort of like Real Labor—if you have to ask, it’s not Real Labor.
That is how the terrible twos were for us the past few weeks. I have whined here about D’s tantrums and his crying when I leave in the morning, which, while brief, is a tempestuous maelstrom of toddler misery and starts my day off with a whopper helping of guilt and a small side of relief that I get to go to work where, most of the time anyway, people do not scream and cry and crumple their sweet faces when I do something they don’t like.
And I thought, “Geez, he’s hit the terrible twos early. This is pretty hard, but I think I can handle it.” Just like seeing all those mountains, and thinking Mt. McKinley would simply be the vaguely bigger one with slightly more snow.
But ooooooh the week of Christmas, I finally saw Mt. McKinley Three temper tantrums before 8 AM one day. Most days, actually. Whining and crying and clinging nonstop from 7-10 every morning, despite however many time-outs or “mommy goes to the other room because that noise makes her ears hurt” rehearsals we did.
I did things I’m not proud of. I’m sure during one of those put-in-time-out-sessions, I was rougher with him than I needed to be. I yelled, despite the fact that it made me sick of myself to do it. I considered not re-upping his contract, which is due to be renewed on Sunday.
And then the night before we were to come back to Utah (because oh yes, most of the horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad parenting I got to do over the holidays was in front of my own sainted parents. Because God has a sick sense of humor, that’s why), D announces on the way home from some outing that he’s MAD! MAD! And starts to cry. It was some kind of gestalt-type release, apparently, because he cried—hard—for the next hour. Nothing would console him. Mama had to hold him UP (no sitting, woman!) and get him away from all grandparents, the TV, and most books and toys. We got him calmed down a few times, but then he’d start up again. We put him to bed early, and he woke once, equally hysterical, but did go back to sleep.
All night, I worried. Was he sick? Was he going to get worse? Would they make us ride on the outside
of the airplane if this hysteria continued?
And then, in the morning, he woke up right when we needed him to—on his own—and was, for the most part, completely charming for the rest of the day. Certainly more charming than either of his parents, who each felt like ten pounds of crap in a five-pound bag.
Since then, thing have been much better. I mean, he’s still being Two, but in a much more manageable kind of way. He’s been affectionate, and even downright adorable on several occasions, so the contract re-negotiations have gone well. It was touch and go there for a while, but the fact that he pretty much poops on command and sleeps twelve hours at night has swayed our front office personnel considerably.
So, now, I will leave you with two bits of D cuteness in case any of you are still reading:
I may have mentioned a time or ten that D calls cats “gun-guns.” We are still not sure why, but the other day, he and the kitty were watching Daddymatic make cookies, and D looked over and said, as clear as a bell, “What do you SEE, Gun-gun?” He then paused dramatically for effect and replied, “I see cookies, Day-vuss.” (he has finally started referring to himself by his own hyper-articulated name. Because apparently, “Day-day” and “D-diddy” are soooo 2006).
And then last night in the tub, he grabbed himself by the business end and said “Day-vuss have a penis.” I concurred that he did. “Daddy have a penis.” I didn’t feel I was in much of a position to deny this, either. I mean, how do you think you got here, little one? Then he said, “Mama have a penis.” No, babe, mama doesn’t have a penis. What does mommy have? He thought for a moment, and then broke into a huge smile and said, very proudly, “a TATOOOOOO!”
That’s my boy.
Pictures coming--Bee-bee was the holiday photojournalist, so when I get them from her, I'll post 'em.