Let’s Get Ready to Rumble

Some people would say you’re late; others would say you’re right on schedule.  I don’t care.  I just know you’re going to stop.  Because.  I. Said. So.

Congratulations on waiting longer than your brother did.

Congratulations on finding a more annoying sound then when your brother whines “Mooooooommmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyy.”  It’s like fingernails on a chalk board to most people or forks scraping on teeth to your Papi or metal scraping against ceramic for Uncle M.  I hate your brother’s whine, but please note, he doesn’t get what he wants.  So when you start to scream/cry/roar, you are not going to get your way.

When I put you in your room when you start to throw a fit, it’s not time out.  You can get out when ever you feel like it.  But you have to leave the fit in there.  The minute you start to throw it out here, you’re back in your room, buddy.  It’s a simple rule.  Temper tantrums are thrown in your room. 

It doesn’t matter what you want, what time you throw it, how you throw it because you’re not getting anything until you calm down.

So good luck.  May the better man when and all that.  But, baby, you should know.  Despite whatever one else says or believes about your mama, she’s a tougher nut to crack than she looks.

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This is just a phase

He’s testing me.  He wants to see if I really mean what I say.  He wants to see how far he can take this.  He wants to see what this button does to mommy.  It’s not yet 8:00 in the morning.

It’s Tornado S.  He’s two.


His eyes lit with daemonic delight when Tornado E showed us his tower of every single Lego built up.  It was taller than Tornado E.  I grabbed Tornado S, trying to make him play another game with him, trying to distract him.  But the moment I let go, TornadoS was running.  I yelled, “NO” in The Voice.

Tornado S knocked over the tower.

I demanded an apology.

Tornado S said, “no” with a smile on his face.

Time Out!

Tornado S cried for two minutes straight.

When time out was up, I asked Tornado S if he knew what he did wrong.  He shook his head, and I explained that I told him no and that he didn’t listen.  I told him to apologize to Tornado E. Tornado S walked toward Tornado E, turned to me, laughed and said, “NO!”

Time Out!


Halfway through time out, The Husband broke ranks and talked Tornado S into apologizing.  He agreed, but I told them time out was mean to be served out.  The Husband snapped about how he wouldn’t be able to work under these conditions as Tornado S resumed his very loud crying.

At two minutes, with the office door firmly shut, I went over the time out procedures again. This time Tornado S apologized.

Ten minutes later, Tornado S knocked Tornado E with a plastic train.  He also refused to apologize.  Time Out AGAIN.  That loud annoying crying again.  I thought I might have to kill someone.  I eyed the usually happy and cute two-year-old.

After two minutes, I repeated the usual time out ending. Tornado S laughed instead of apologizing.  TIME OUT AGAIN!  Two minutes of the crying ensued.  I swear I’m going to kill that kid.  Then I remembered how Tornado E pushed my resolve for a full day, and he was younger.  I can do this.

At the end of two minutes, Tornado S was willing to apologize.  We moved on.

To bath time, which was great for five minutes.  Until Tornado S was upset Tornado E was on his side, and then he hit Tornado E with a pirate.  Are you kidding me?!  Wash hair, get soap in their eyes, rinse them, dry them, wrangle them into clothes.  Mommy is ready to play.  Bring it on.

Oh, crap.  But today is Monday, which is grocery shopping day, which means I have to bring the little monsters into public.  Sonofabitch.

Let’s just say I reassured the cashier, a mother of an eighteen-month-old, that everything is a phase.  Then I plopped down three king-sized candy bars with my groceries.

This is just a phase.  This is just a phase.  This is just a phase.

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The little dictator

As Sean grows older, he becomes more demanding.  He has no problem in taking some one by the hand and leading that person to what he wants.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the fridge.  He’ll point to the fridge and demand, “Juice!”

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the fridge.  He’ll point to the top of the fridge for the candy jar and point and point.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the counter.  He’ll point and demand, “Banana!”  Because he has learned to say banana, he demands them a lot, so he can hear himself say it.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to an open book of look-and-find.  He’ll point to the ground and demand, “Sit.” He’ll sit as well and tap the book.

Other days, he’ll just bring you what he wants.  He’ll shove a book into your hands, or he’ll shove a car into your hands.  Some times he’ll toddle out of the kitchen with a box of crackers and shove them into your hands with a demand of “Pease.” 

If, for some reason, you cannot give into these demands, he’ll throw himself down for a temper tantrum with a soft wail.  Honestly, it’s too funny because it’s nothing like the top of the lungs screaming Evan used to do.  Good luck with that, kid.

The main problem is that Sean does not understand that when he hands me a box with a cake on it or picture of pudding on it that does not mean it is in the box. 

Sweetheart, it’s a mix.  Mommy has to make it.  I swear to you don’t want to eat this powdery stuff.  Come on.  It’s time to throw your fit in your bed room.


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