As of today, Tori is 21 months old. That, by my math, is still three looong months away from the arrival of her second birthday. Three months in which we’re still supposed to be able to coo over her cuteness and marvel over all the new words tripping off her tongue.
But my Tori? Is apparently a little precocious. She has suddenly become a Tiny Demon from Deepest Depths of Hell, her 25-pound body now home to a whole host of evil spirits determined to wring the last drop of sanity from my bones.
You want examples? I’ll give you examples.
Every mealtime is another battle in World War III. First, she made it clear (via insistent shrieking) that she did not want to sit in her high chair anymore. So we bought her a booster chair. Then, she decided that no one could help her into her booster chair. Nope, little Tori had to climb up and in all by herself. And once she won that battle? She decided she didn’t want to eat at the table. At all. Ever again.
This evening, we actually put the buckles back on her highchair, pulled it up to the table and strapped her in. It was the only way we could get her to sit down. She, of course, proceeded to scream throughout the entire meal and refused to eat a single bite. It was beyond awful. We’re hoping tomorrow night goes better, but…she’s my daughter. And thus, very stubborn. I have very little hope.
Sesame Street has become my Nightmare on Elm Street. It started innocently enough. When I needed five or ten minutes to just. get. something. done., I’d turn on a Sesame Street playlist for Tori and do my thing. Then it became a morning routine. Slowly, Sesame began taking over more and more of Tori’s mind. And now? It’s almost an obsession. She wants Sesame when she gets up in the morning. After she eats her breakfast. As a reward for getting her diaper changed. Because she blinked.
Which, of course, is not okay in my book. So now we have showdowns – at least five times a day. She says “deet deet.” I shake my head no. She says “DEET DEET!” I walk away. She throws herself down on the floor and screams. Loudly. I stuff my head in the toilet. You get the picture.
She is channeling her inner teenager. And I am not prepared. Suddenly anything I ask her to do is the Worst Punishment on Earth. Brushing her teeth. Taking a bath. Getting dressed. Going to bed. Putting on her jacket. Picking up her toys. Getting into the car. All these small tasks infuriate her. Almost before the words have left my mouth, she’s running for cover, screaming “NOOOOO” and throwing things as she goes.
I was prepared to deal with this level of defiance in, oh, another twelve years or so. But at this point, I am not nearly tough enough to handle it calmly.
So, tell me, Internet. Is this the terrible twos? Or do I need to find a priest? And if it is the terrible twos, how on earth am I supposed to get through the next 15 months with my sanity intact?