Make the Headlines

It was a murder-suicide kind of day. The kind of day that brings out the mean mama in me, that brings me closer to other mothers of two-year-olds. You only need to say, ”It was a two-year-old morning,” and I know what you mean. It seems we’re having a two-year-old month.

Things that happen right before a tantrum:

1. I won’t let her apply my husband’s sample of musk deodorant all over her face.
2. She can’t get her sock on.
3. I won’t let her take a paper bag of nails to daycare.
4. She doesn’t want to change her poopy diaper.
5. I won’t let her rock her brother so vigorously his head flings around over his body.

Two. It explains everything. So I call my husband and try not to sound too desperate when I ask how long until he gets home because I gave her lentils when she wanted oatmeal and the baby is crying and I’m trying to cook risotto and the ants invaded the cat food and I’m dehydrated and have a headache the size of Texas and if he doesn’t get home soon there will be a murder-suicide. He knows what I mean and steps on the gas- the other direction!