On the (not so) Terrible Two's

A few weeks ago, I was telling someone that the "Terrible Two's" are really a myth, that two is a pretty fantastic age and that the really horrible tantrums are more of an eighteen-month-old thing. Back in the days of Suzannah's youth, she could throw some pretty impressive tantrums -- you'd get as far as pursing your lips to tell that girl no and she'd fling herself face down on the kitchen floor and wail. Poor Blondie spent a lot of time hiding out in our bedroom, her paws clamped firmly over her ears, I'm sure.

But now that's she's two years old and practically a kindergartener, all grown up, I explained, tantrums aren't as much of an issue. Her vocabulary is growing all the time, and she's finding words to express herself! She doesn't have to resort to stomping her little feet and pointing and hollering "Ehhhhhhhmmyyyyymama!" In short, she's learning how to deal with conflict quite nicely!

Right.

Apparently I'd forgotten about the very public fit she threw at the mall when I tried to run errands with her, because I wouldn't let her run up the aisles at a store holding something breakable, something I had not actually purchased nor had any intention of purchasing. There she was, face down on the floor in the store, howling as though I'd just told her that THERE IS NO COOKIE MONSTER. Twenty-five pounds of fury -- and she was mine, all mine! I think that little shopping trip lasted all of twelve minutes.

But hey, those days happen. Sometimes I'd like to throw myself down on the floor and have a good howl, too, but then I remember that I'm not two, and I have farther to fall.

Still, I've noticed something recently. Suzannah does less of the body-slamming on the kitchen floor, less of the head-butting maybe, but she's discovered a powerful new weapon -- the Angry Toddler Scream. She only breaks it out when things are really bad, like, say, when we pour her milk into the pink cup with the green lid instead of the pink cup with the purple lid. Or when the dog looks at her while she's eating. (Yes, Blondie may have snatched a fish stick directly from Suzannah's hand, but Suzannah has also been known to allow the dog to lick oatmeal off her fingers, so who can blame her for trying?) These days, Suzannah is liable to start hollering, "NO! MINE! MINE! PUPPY!" if Blondie dares to poke her head into the kitchen -- it's like she's hollering "BEAR!" or something, like a warning, like we're supposed to head for cover, or possibly spray the dog in the face with something. Water, maybe, or pepper spray. What usually happens is that one of us will sigh and say, "Blondie's fine. Eat your food. Ignore her." This works about as well as it used to work when my mother would tell me to ignore my little brother when he was LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

It sort of serves me right for being all, "We're so beyond tantrums!" Go ahead and laugh. It reminds me of the time when my friend Tisha asked, 28 weeks into my pregnancy, if I had any stretch marks. I bragged pretty noisily about not having a single one, and naturally, when I woke up the next morning? There they were, in all their decorative glory. I never really bothered to get too angsty over my stretch marks, though, because for the most part, I really loved being pregnant. And I'm trying to take the Angry Toddler Scream in stride, too, because for the most part, two is a completely fantastic age. She's curious about everything and wants it to have a name. She's cuddly and affectionate. She teases us by hiding behind the glider in her bedroom and then jumping out and shrieking, "Peek-boo! I see you!" (Which sounds sort of like, "I thee-ewe." Admit it, that's even cuter.)

I keep a journal for Suzannah in which I write letters to her -- I started it when she turned one, and it's so much easier for me to maintain something like that than, say, a scrapbook. Someday, when she's old enough, when it feels right, I have this idea that I'll give it to her. This is part of what I wrote on the night she turned two:

There's nothing terrible about your turning two. Watching you grow is the greatest joy of my life. There's a bittersweetness to your growing older, of course; sometimes I miss the nights when you shared our bed and fell asleep at my breast, and I feel a little weepy when I box up another set of clothing you don't fit into anymore. I see newborns and marvel at their newness, at how tiny they are, and I try to remember what you were like as one. But the truth is, Suzannah, that I wouldn't wish you back to babyhood. I have loved it all, and I would never dream of rushing any part of the journey, but there is just so much to look forward to. Everything you leave behind means opening the door to something new and wonderful, and I just hope I can keep and hold the sweet, sweet memories along the way -- and then all we can do is hang on tight and enjoy the fabulous ride.