Here you can see us on the floor being really difficult, you know, because we can be. |
I’ve been a mild-mannered reporter by day for most of my life, and even though I once reported that I had turned ‘terribly two’ I never really had. Did I skip this rebellious phase entirely or just put it off a bit? Well the jury has adjourned, and my horribly terrible twos are due, and the parents have to pay it off with years of interest to boot.
Who did they think they were, these so-called parents of mine, these people who thought my kindness was some sort of absence of horror? They thought that my deficiency of two-terribility somehow meant it wasn’t coming, but it was, it has, and it’s here people, and it seems to me (and everyone around me) like it’s here to stay!
It was like a volcano building up. In the weeks before Mount St. Helens gave her grand blast, there were those who saw her absence of eruption as a sign that it would never come. Come on, people, the north face was swelling and it was full of nothing but molten, hot magma, and that old girl was ready to give way in unprecedented fashions.
So think of me like the pre-1982 face of Mount St. Helens. I’ve been as kind as I’ve been able, but I’ve been bubbling up under the surface, and my internal tension has grown too much and it’s time for me to blow.
And now I’ve blown. I know it wasn’t that long ago that I wrote about my own entrance to a new era of adorability, but I’ll much sooner accept that this article was premature than consider that I was ill-prepared for my newfound life of frustration that I’ve just now entered.
I’m cute -- great, that serves me well with strangers -- but the parents have to deal with my day-in and day-out, and they are as perturbed with my behavior of late as I am with my reaction to these consequences so, where’s the compromise?
To me it works like this: I sit on the couch and I demand someone to give me my blanket even though it’s within arms reach. Then I demand it cover my exposed foot even though there’s none who could do it as well as me, then I demand I get the whole couch to myself, but I likewise demand that the Daddy-O sit on the couch with me, even though I already kicked him off. All of it is worthy of a 10-minute crying spell even though there is no right answer and nobody, not even me, myself, can make any of it right once again.
But what floors my handlers the most is that, with my grievances unresolved, I can whine for fully two hours about the things that I can fix myself (admittedly within 10-seconds or so) and that there’s nothing anyone at all can do to fix them.
I’ve also said before that there’s no pleasing me, but it’s more true now than ever before. Sometimes Daddy-O “has enough” and let’s me know it, but I just quiet down, well up, let loose with the water works and hide my face. Even still it doesn’t please me.
Man, I’m sure a huge whiner.
The point of this story is that it’s curiously dangerous to defer the terrible twos. I don’t think my parents did it to me on purpose, but it happened, and now I’m terribly two on the cusp of turning four, and I just can’t let it slide without a momentous payment of interest, and I’m taking it out in blood, sweat, tears, lymph, bile and nauseating spurn.
Also, did I mention “boo hoo” and “wah”?
Above - If you want to grab a spatula and scrape us up off the floor, you're certainly welcome to give it a shot, but we're not going to make it easy. Dominic hit his "terrible twos" on time and I joined right in with him, so now there's two of us together being terribly two, and there ain't nothing you can do about it.
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