Once upon a time, I was mother to a sweet, laid back, happy-go-lucky little baby.
And then my toddler ate him.
I am discovering that Toddler Ryan is much more opinionated than Infant Ryan was. When Toddler Ryan wants something, he really wants something.
There's no such thing as "Gee, I could go for a splash of milk sometime soon." Rather, it's "DEAR GOD I Need A Gallon Of Milk Right Effing Now!”
It's not "Hm, I wonder what's going on in the kitchen..." Instead, it's "HOLY CRAP, I'm Missing All The Fun In The Kitchen And I Have To Get There Immediately And DO NOT Get In My Way, Lady!”
|You have exactly three seconds to remove me from these pumpkins before I lose.my.shiz.|
I try to reason with him. I explain the safety factors behind my suggestion that he play in the living room or the play room rather than six inches away from where Dad is cooking. I remind him that just because he can't have milk right this second doesn't mean he'll never have milk again.
Of course, my explanations are drowned out by the wild banshee noises coming out of him, the likes of which quicken the step of all who pass by the front of our house.
What's a little intimidating is the knowledge that Toddler Ryan is here to stay for a while. Really, we're just getting started. I expect that in another year or two, Toddler Ryan will give way to Total Raving Lunatic Ryan. Luckily for him, when he’s not yelling at us, he’s pretty cute, so we'll probably keep him.