Displaced....a Mommy Blog

If you don't like Mommy Blogs, here's a link to my site and a blog about politics.

http://www.hapasmama.com/blog.aspx

But if you want to laugh and sympathize with us, here you go:

I told people that our son hit the Terrible Twos like hitting a switch—right around his second birthday. Well, in the last few days Terrible Twos: Turbo Version has taken up residence at our house.

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I stopped working my “day job,” which means no more day care. A good thing, right? Well, it’s a transition. He gets Mommy, but no more “Max,” his favorite friend. No more “Shadow” the dog. Then John got sick, and Mommy was sick, which put the cabash on any kind of “go” (his word for an outing).

But the most important factor in John’s fits is DISPLACEMENT. He knows that Mommy looks like a beached whale. He keeps hearing about a “baby.” He can smell change in the air, like a dog.

I was so little when I was displaced—seventeen months—that I don’t even remember. Jeremy does remember, but he was old enough to be excited. John, on the other hand, is really bent.

Here’s what we’ve been dealing with: Demands for food and “dink” which, when fulfilled, are met with “No. No apple juice. No hot dog. NOOOOOO!” Demands to see “Pa-Pa” and “Gi-Gi” (his grandparents) at all hours of the day and night (as though can rescue him from the imminent Flailing, hitting fits of twenty, thirty minutes at a time.

Friday, he threw a fit when we left the baby secondhand store. My crime? Not buying a “choo-choo” identical to the one he has at home. We went to the park to feed the ducks. He circled the water fountain, insisting on a “dink” even though I explained, “They turn off the water in cold weather. Let’s go to the car for your cup!” It was time to leave, so I walked down the path without him. He refused to follow. Finally, we got home. John asked for “Da-Da.” He insisted on sitting in his high chair, but refused every offer of food. I sat in the living room, eating some leftover tacos and thinking as he screamed. Da-da came home for his lunch break, but John continued to scream. Da-da must have been sorry he bothered to come home and see his boy. The next demand? “Uncle Doo,” who lives

It’s Sunday night, and John seems to be okay, for a few minutes at least. Jeremy had to put him in his crib twice—we could not hear ourselves think over the volume of his screams. Take away the audience…it’s the last tool we have left.

I’ve never read the business book but I’ve heard it’s about adjusting to change. Should I write a toddler version? Oh, who cares. He would hear the word cheese and screech, and kick the floor for another twenty minutes.