The Terrible Twos Commence

Q climbs on top of the slick faux-leather sofa and perches precariously, flashing a big smile at me. "You are trouble!" she exclaims (she really can't get this talking-in-first-person thing down). She looks at me expectantly, eyes sparkling, waiting for me to reprimand her. "Time out!" I say, because this is the 10th time she's climbed on top of the couch after I told her not to. She tumbles gracefully to the floor and runs lickety-split to her little plastic green lawn chair that's facing the corner of the hallway. She sits in it obediently as I wind the owl timer and gives a plaintive little whine, but it's just lip service. She spends the remainder of her 2-minute time out singing the animal alphabet to herself and taking off her socks.

I kept thinking, "Maybe now is the beginning of the terrible twos," whenever any new parenting challenge arose. But I didn't know. Now I KNOW. The terrible twos are her taking absolute pleasure in disobeying my every request. The terrible twos are an onslaught of "no"s because it's something I suggested. The terrible tantrums are random meltdowns when I insist that shes washes her hands or brushes her teeth. The terrible twos are her pronouncing words incorrectly on purpose or telling me the wrong colors of things as she grins at me, daring me to correct her. I had the audacity to take her outside to play in the backyard today, and stood bewildered as she rattled the gate lock and cried, snot running down her face, crying to go back in. Exasperated, I said, "Fine! We'll go inside!" and opened the gate to lead the way, at which point she instantly sniffled a high-pitched, "No!" and backed away from the gate, saying, "You wanna play outside." "Okay," I said, and closed the gate once more. The crying resumed, and all I could do was shrug my shoulders and go relax on the porch swing while I waited for my toddler to realize that I wasn't listening to her and go sneak into a corner to eat little rocks.

Never have I witnessed such pure, unadulterated pleasure as when I find her doing something she knows she's not allowed to do: salvaging food scraps from the trash can, elbow-deep in the recycling bin, or climbing the changing table in her room like it's a jungle gym. The prospect of discipline doesn't deter her--I have yet to find a form of discipline that's remotely effective against this phase. As I barely cling to scraps of my sanity, all I can do is redirect, raise my voice, or just tune her out.

I love the kid, but MAN do I breathe a big sigh of relief every night as I tuck her into her crib, turn off the lights, say a prayer, and tiptoe out the door.