My son is two. Very two. The past six months have been filled with all of those terrible twos nonsensical mother vs. toddler battles. And I've learned that parenting a 2-year-old is a bowl of soup and as a mother, I am the fork.
I can never perfect the forever curving world of his development and demands. Every morning, we start our days. And I wonder...is the peanut butter going to be too sticky today, or is it going to be the only food that he is interested in consuming all day? Is the sopa made of elbows still acceptable, or will it be a fight to have it be the alphabet today? Are his underwear the right character, or is he not into superheroes anymore? Does his shirt cover too much skin, or does he want to wear a full blown sweater?
SOUP.
I try my absolute best to keep up with his constantly changing of wants, needs, and preferences. All while instilling that I AM IN CHARGE HERE. I am the adult. No you can't have a lollipop for breakfast. But you may have it after a trip to the bathroom and six bites of this burrito. Yes, you have to wear clothes and shoes if you are going to walk out of this house. So I'm not quite sure why you threw your shoes clear across the hallway just now. No, you cannot paint right now. We just played with play-doh perfectly fine and I just cleaned. Yes, I will properly buckle you into your car seat. The one that you sit in every day because it's the law and frankly I'd like it if you didn't go flying out our windshield if there was a car accident.
FORK.
I don't love my son any less. Sometimes it's kind of adorable that toddlers make absolutely no sense at all. And yes, I know that he will grow out of it, it's just a phase, and he'll eventually learn the matter of reason and that these will all be stories to laugh at around the dinner table.
But for now, all that I can try to do is roll with all of the toddler craziness, try to teach him how to control those pesky radical emotions, take a breather, and somehow work on transforming my fork into a spork by the time he turns three.
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