There are six days left in my first born’s life as a two-year old and while I’ve got my emotions about it, I mostly have anxiety.

It does not look like three is going to be a good year for us. All arrows are pointing towards the deep depths of misery.

I had always heard the twos were terrible (and you already know I disagree wholeheartedly) but since becoming a mom, handfuls of mothers have told me tales of these creatures they call “threenagers”. They’ve told me tales of terrible tantrums, complete hysteria over nothing, absolutely inconsolable dead-weight creatures who lie on the ground in public places and flail uncontrollably. I’ve heard stories of peeing on things and people out of anger, throwing things at other children’s faces, punching and hitting and biting. I’ve heard stories of children who hurl insults that not even the most evil adults would have the audacity to utter. And yet, despite the horrifying tales, I’ve had a hard time taking these warnings to heart. My angel, Matty, would never be like that. His face is too precious, his mind too wise and his heart too big.


I am fucking dumb.

My kid’s precious face? Yeah, right. He inherited the ability to recreate my resting bitch face on demand along with the evil, squinty fire-breathing glare of a dragon. His head is full of self-centered wants, profanity and manipulation techniques. And his heart, as far as I can tell that part I got right – it is big – but it’s also extremely fragile; one wrong gesture towards the incorrect sippy cup and his heart will break into a million tiny pieces, and you’ll feel the aftermath for what feels like an eternity.

It’s safe to say that over the past couple of months, Matty has really come out of his shell – and by shell I obviously mean the dark, damp dungeon of satan. When he doesn’t get his way, he makes this noise that’s like something I’ve never heard before. It’s like a combination of a professional fire alarm, that weird bark of a seal and the high pitched screech of a jungle monkey. If a noise could have a feeling, I would say it feels like getting a tattoo – you know, that grating, nauseating, continuous sting that you can’t wait to be over. He roars at me like a rabid dinosaur when I say something he doesn’t want to hear. He pushes and shoves and claws and kicks. He uses his ever-evolving vocabulary to stab you in your gut and, at times, your heart. And just this morning he proved to me that he has now realized that while I may be able to take his toys and threaten to take away his birthday party (which he calls my bluff on daily – because he’s not an idiot), he can withhold hugs and kisses at drop off and break his moms heart in public where he knows she can’t do anything about it.

Honestly, I know this is (FINGERS AND TOES CROSSED SO HARD) a phase, but I’m not even sure I can handle a whole year of this. I mean, it’s only been one month of progressively worse behavior and two weeks full of, like, set-my-hair-on-fire-and-get-me-thefuck-out-of-here days (Abbott, too, is in a really special phase – endless biting and face scratching) but…twelve months and six days more? Holy frijoles. No. Just – no.

You guys. My first babe is going to be three and I’ve never wanted him to stay little more than I do right now. This morning I asked him where my sweet baby went after he yelled at me and this was his LEGIT response:

“He fell out of the chair! Now you have Abbott.”

Let’s hope Satan doesn’t come looking for his child because we ALL know where he lives now.

Typical night at my house.