hyena

If I didn’t know better, I’d be convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt and an ill-fitting leather glove that my son is a bipolar hyena. 

Up until two weeks ago, Smith was a perfectly reasonable child. We had our fair share of issues from time to time, but despite outward blog appearances, he really is an amazingly delicious, kind hearted, and sweet potato pie of a toddler. 

Sure he doesn’t listen from time to time. Of course he throws tantrums and justifies that sliding across the tile floor will inevitably get convince Mommy that he can jump off the bar stool, face first onto the couch. Typical drama llama. 

In the past two weeks though, life with a toddler has become exponentially more difficult. I suppose all you assholes that said 3 was way worse than 2 were right. And for that, you get a swift kick in the vagina and my middle finger shoved promptly in your ear hole. 

Shit as simple as getting dressed turns into World War III. Need him to brush his teeth? You might as well be shoving a fire stick up his asshole. Suggest he wear his new dinosaur shirt? Eff you mom. Don’t you know that I need to wear my pajamas to school? 

The tantrums. The sheer refusal to do anything willingly. The tenacity to push every single one of my buttons until I’m one foot outside of Betty Ford and have my first initial on the divorce papers. 

The kid is so damn strong willed, it’s frightening. But moments after he throws himself on the ground of the parking lot in Target because he wanted peanut m&m's instead of regular, he’s reaching for your neck to give you the biggest toddler bear hug your cold, dark, and parentally challenged heart can take. He’ll follow up a time out with a mommy, you happy? And when you finish reprimanding him for being a ridiculous assface, he looks up at you and says I yuv you, Mommy. 

I can certainly understand why some other species eat their young. Toddlers are such twisted little shits. In the best way possible.