Metal Meredith

This is your only warning.

When you don’t have kids, the horror stories start at “terrible twos”. When you have kids, you come to know better.

I was expecting Vivienne to turn into a beast overnight when she turned two. When she was very little, I overheard some moms talking about their toddlers. I clearly remember exactly what one said to the other “Terrible Twos? No way. Three is so much worse.” I was very nervous at that point.

Welcome to almost-three. Please, take a seat and let’s chat about it. I will tell you a few stories of the past week and you decide.

Sunday: Vivienne went through another non-pooping weekend and by Sunday she resembled Andy Rooney’s permanent furrowed brow. At noon, Phil and I decided to administer a little something to make things “run more smoothly” for her.

Although the label clearly said it would work in 15 min up to one hour, 8 hours later she was hitting and screaming and crying at both of us until she finally cleared out. After she picked out a “poopie prize” (yes, it has come to that), she informed both Phil and I that she was all done and would never poop again. We looked at each other, smirked and thought “Great.”

Tuesday: We met my sister at the Mall for some lunch and some playtime. Since Monday was a happy day, Tuesday started the cycle of full of crap = nasty attitude all over again. After she curled up on me when she was done eating, I thought we were in for a nice afternoon. Of course, this was just a ploy to get to the playground.

She spent a good hour jumping, climbing, playing with other kids, running around, laughing, sliding and having a great time. When it was time to go, I gave her two warnings. On that last, I waited for her to go down the slide, informed her it was the last time and then grabbed her when she came out.

Suddenly and without warning, her head spun around 360 and she started spitting pea soup all over the….ok, maybe not that bad, but it wasn’t pretty. Fortunately, if my sister ever questioned her decision not to have kids, she was immediately satisfied. Vivienne proceeded to hit me, scream as loud as she could, spit at me, spit again, kick, go limp and then yell a few more times as I picked her up with one arm and grabbed her shoes with the other.

It didn’t end there. She yelled most of the way home until I started to talk to Phil on the phone. She then proclaimed that she was angry and showed me so by pushing her brow in and down, glaring straight at me and pursing her lips. It didn’t stop until she fell asleep at naptime.

Wednesday: After school, she typically plays with Sam in the school parking lot median, transporting the gravel from one end to the other in the “Gravel Relocation Project 2006”. On Wednesday, she walked straight to the car, grabbed the keys from my hand, turned around and looked right at Sam. “No Sam, I go home now,” as she put her hand right up in front of her and turned to get into the car. Ouch.

Thursday: So far today, we have been in time out twice, where she is forced to sit in her tiny chair, facing a closed door in the extra room. It isn’t a happy place and she knows it. After enduring her spitting at me for not getting Her Majesty juice right when she asked, it was time out for her. Instead of her typical 2-3 minutes, it lasted 6 because she would yell, scream, kick the door and continue to spit.

When I finally came into the room to collect her, I sat down next to her and didn’t say a word. She looked up and said (with a tiny smile, I might add), “I kicked the door and spit at you when you were in the other room.”

Lord. Help. Me.