Whoever suggested the terribles begin at two clearly did not have children of their own OR their son/daughter entered their world after the child turned two. Our Rockstar is now 21 months old and he has a minor case of the terribles. Thankfully they come and go and he's sweet and kind and loving the majority of the time: of course Grams, Papa, Granny and Grandad never see the terribles. The Rockstar saves the symptoms for Mama and Dada. We hear the word "No" on a regular basis and he will now go and sit himself in time-out when he has done something he suspects could earn a seat in the "naughty spot". The reality is he has only been placed there a handful of times but evidentially they have been effective visits. Generally his terribles involve things that are not destructive or dangerous: he is clearly testing the limits and usually will stop whatever it is he is doing once he's asked if a time out is necessary. But the whining, oh the whining! If you have a secret for curbing the whining please do share it with me.
My favourite defiant moment happened earlier this week. Mike and I took the Rockstar to the park across the street where there are shovels and buckets strewn about the giant sandbox (more like gravel than sand) for the neighbourhood kids to take advantage of. Within moments of arriving the Rockstar dug up a big shovel of gravel and walked over to me. He poured the gravel on my foot giggling. He refilled the shovel and made a motion that warned me I was about to get a face full of gravel. I quickly snatched the shovel from him and told him firmly that we do not throw sand at people.
I tipped the gravel back onto the ground and went to hand him the shovel but it was too late. My sweet boy had already belly flopped into the sandbox whining in his own language (likely something about his meanie Mama). When he finally sat up he had gravel stuck all over his chin and cheeks (he's teething so his drool was acting as glue). I kindly asked him to come to me so I could wipe it off for him and he snapped "No!". Then he really gave it to me: he reached down and scooped up a handful of gravel... wait for it... and he stuffed the handful directly into his mouth. Take that, Mom!!
What a monkey. As I listened to the crunch of gravel between molars I suggested he spit it out and you can guess what his reply was. "No!" Mike asked him if it tasted bad. "No!" We asked if he wanted a drink of water. "No!" He then proceeded to play at the park while crunching on his mouthful of rocks. Yum. Mike was concerned about the fact that his son was chewing on rocks: I said the worst that would likely happen is he would be pooping bits of gravel for a few days and hopefully the natural consequences of stuffing your face with gravel would persuade him to avoid doing it again in the future. Twenty minutes later he happily opened his mouth to allow me brush the gravel from his mouth.
Kids are crazy. That's the moral of this story: C.R.A.Z.Y.
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