The terrible two/terrible three/toddler years, that is? |-|
I’m not sure I’ll make it through…it’s not even 9a and I’m already done with Owen. (I’ve warned you I have NO patience.)
He had just finished breakfast (if you could call three bites of egg and two spoons of yogurt “breakfast”) and wanted to look at the fishies—from the chair. So he kept pulling my finger to try and get me OFF the chair. And of course I wouldn’t budge because he’s not allowed to stand on a chair (because he then tries to dunk his hands in the tank)…so he started whining.
I tried to sit him on my lap—which he DID. NOT. WANT. So the crying turned into screaming. I tried to direct him away from the tank, but he wanted ON. THAT. CHAIR. And it went on and on and on. Until he was crying so hard and so frantically that he barfed all over the place.
Yeah, this is one of those mornings where kid #2 is far, far, far from my thoughts. š