The Terrible Two. I don’t understand
I mean, what’s really so terrible about the Terrible Twos?
I’m not quite sure who coined the term, but it’s supposedly a terribly difficult time for parents. Apparently so bad that they conjured up the phrase in the first place. A time characterized by tantrums, mood swings and an affinity for the word ‘no’. All while your little person struggles to express themselves and set boundaries.
It’s a term you start hearing about practically from day one of your illustrious parenting career. It is an ominous warning that looms in the background.
Enjoying an uneventful day in the absence of her baby’s deafening screams…
Or manage a full night of uninterrupted sleep…
There will certainly be someone there the next day with a smile on their face and a twinkle in their eyes. Right before I remind you to enjoy it all now…
Because, in ways only they are sure to fully understand, it’s bound to get harder.
Maybe Kaia didn’t get the memo. Or maybe we just missed something because back then, unlike now, both mom and dad did what we wanted, when we wanted.
Oh how I miss those not so terrible, terrible twos.
No, don’t get me wrong. During that time period, we had our fair share of Code 5 meltdowns. Once on a flight to Bali and a handful of times during our year in South America.
The worst being in an AirBnB in a fairly gentrified neighborhood of Buenos Aires. The screams of our inconsolable cherub are so intensely stressful that I would be left with no choice but to take the girl across the street. And it would be there, in the middle of the dimly lit street, the neighbors began to cast looks of concern and then disdain…
While not one but two police cars would turn around for a second, slower, more thorough investigation. Of what, in his eyes, there must be
It seemed like an obvious case of an attempted child abduction gone wrong.
But looking back, that tantrum and three-quarters of the rest during that fateful year were self-inflicted by mom and dad. We had underestimated the importance of keeping to a schedule and our optimistic and eternally cheerful child was telling us of the ramifications.
Yes, the lesson was soon learned. We had brought it upon ourselves.
However, the same cannot be said for the last two and a half years. A period not coincidentally timed with the beginning of Kaia’s formal education.
On the positive side, it is a period characterized by the introduction of the concepts of best friends, hobbies and budding personalities and, on the other…
The introduction of a thing called ‘attitude’. And with that, liberal sprinklers of scheming and manipulation were mixed into the equation to
good measure.
It’s an attitude usually directed at Mr. Bad Cop (Sincerely) and one I’ve found myself about seven or eight years from being prepared for.
Because somewhere after Terrible Twos and the years leading up to Teenage Terror there is apparently another phonetically pleasing catchphrase to describe the world of frustration that I, I, and I currently find ourselves in.
Whatever it is or whatever it’s called, my fingers are crossed it’s just a phase. But if so, for how long? Because a boy can only take so many endless debates and reprimands from a seven year old.
And to make matters worse, Bec has conveniently been left out of this Dream Team’s starting lineup.
No, she sits on the sidelines to the left perpetually shaking her head. Stunned at the unfolding spectacle of husband and daughter arguing like an old married couple riddled with dementia.
According to Bec, this whole situation is due to the fact that both Kaia and I share much more than the same eye color. SUPPOSEDLY, WE’RE BOTH incredibly stubborn and impatient, or so the story goes.
Apparently the list of similarities is longer but to be honest I find it all a bit far fetched. Besides, I don’t have time to listen to that bullshit.
Maybe if he could think of a clever name or acronym. Something to make sense of this unnamed and unexpected period of ongoing combustible events.
Something… anything, just to provide a ray of hope.
That would be nice, but, in typical Kaia-the-girl fashion, with what I suspect was a little help from Mrs. Good Cop: she thinks the solution is
much simpler.
“Dad,” he said, after another exasperating “debate” (probably related to an objection to my claim that the sky is blue). ‘You just need to remember that I’m just a kid.’
I suddenly realized that this was the quintessential case of ‘The pot calls the kettle black’ that I had heard in a long, long time. But it was useless.
I quickly resigned myself to living to fight another day and left. My head shook with disbelief and my pride vanished once again.
All the while pining for the Terrible Twos like never before.