One should never, ever prophecy the future with a two year old.
What do I mean?
Well today, I have told the two toddlers to stop running and jumping all over the house because they would hit their heads if they fell. D'oh.
The younger one of course took this as some sort of challenge. And he did in fact run, fall and crack his head on the corner of the coffee table. Curses.
The older one has decided it is appropriate to scream bloody murder any time he even thinks he might not get his way. OMG. This child gives an opera singer a run for the money in the vocal projection area.
Of course neither took a good nap, because of course the freakin water heater which wasn't even 2 years old, broke, and was being replaced. What is about things that are 2 years old that make me want to pull my hair out and go running down the street screaming:
"I'm crazy, I'm crazy....."
The plumber had to make noise to get it installed, which of course I knew would have to happen when the boys had been put down for their nap.
The younger child, thankfully goes to sleep very well. No crying. No standing in the bed. Just lays there and goes to sleep peacefully.
The older one has to have the TV on, in theory at least. He wants to sleep on the couch, and I do not allow that, because frankly I need the break and I am meeeeeeeeeeeeen. So today after they both got in trouble again for running in the house, and then back sassing me, I put them to bed early. This sets the older one off.
I put the younger one down and go to put the older one to bed in my room, in my bed. Now he sleeps in there because it is comfy, and he can doze off to the TV, and I can have a few minutes to try to gather my sanity. We walk out of the other bedroom, and he starts to throw a holy living shit fit. I mean dropping to the floor. Turning into jelly, and screaming like a howling beast of torture and death. So I pick him up without a word. Take him into my room and plop him on the bed. He keeps screaming. I shut the blinds. I turn on the little heater. He is still screaming. I turn to him and tell him calmly--which is very hard to do, because I want to rip my ears off, and shove cement down the exposed ear holes at this point--
"If you continue to scream, you will not get TV."
The screaming and howling gets louder. Louder. So I resolve no TV. I really hate having to be the heavy, but unfortunately it is the job description.
"No TV it is then."
I turn around, and calmly walk out pulling the door mostly shut. I shake my head as I walk down the hall to the kitchen where I do not open the bottle of Vodka that beckons me, with its relaxing goodness, and warmth. He screams, and screams. I will not give in. This will kill me.
I get to hear my name shrilled at the top of his lungs, followed by I don't want to sleep, and I want to watch Bob the Builder, and I want the TV on, for about 15 minutes. Then it goes quiet.
Rob is home having lunch, and has to go to the potty, which is right next to our bedroom. When he comes out, he says that the boy is basically chanting:
"I love you Robyn, I want the TV" over and over. I decide today will be the day he learns why I have the nickname of "Mean Aunt Robyn". I do not give in. He falls asleep.
After the naps are over, much too soon I might add, the hell of boys who do not listen continues. They run and fall. They run and cry. They throw tanty's because I won't let them play with knives and outlets--ok not really, but you get the point.
I need a drink. A very big drink. Maybe a big frosty margarita.
Hold me, I am stressed.
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