They say that kids go through developmental cycles of equilibrium (“pleasant”) and disequilibrium (“Linda Blair in The Exorcist”) every few months. Although the timing of these phases varies from child to child, periods of disequilibrium typically occur around the child’s half-birthday.
Guess who will be two-and-a-half tomorrow?
I am sorry to report that Mira appears to be gunning for poster child of Disequilibrium, throwing tantrums the size of Texas throughout the day. She’s just… mad. Everything is wrong. I’m not sure if it’s because of her still-limited vocabulary, or if I am truly the source of all her disgruntledness, but her tantrum mantra goes like this: “No-Mama-No-Mama-No-Mama-No-Mama!” (On and on).
She should get to watch more Dora!
She should get to have more snacks five minutes before dinner!
She should get to play with permanent markers!
She should get to send Ethan’s iPod down the laundry chute!
She should get to refuse a diaper change!
She should get to decide when/if it’s bedtime!
It’s all so unfair. (No-Mama-No-Mama-No-Mama-No-Mama!)
After a string of tantrums this morning at home, she finally got interested in something and wandered away from me, slapping down the hallway wearing Gracie’s flip-flops. She returned about few minutes later. With big, fat clown lips. ‘Cause clown lips is what you get if you’re two and you try to apply lipstick by yourself.
I scrubbed her face with Vaseline so she wouldn’t look like a miniature hooker at daycare, and explained that we don’t take things out of Mommy’s purse. (No-Mama-No-Mama-No-Mama-No-Mama!)
On the bright side, in the six minutes it took for her to retrieve my purse from the counter, locate and unzip the correct pocket, unearth my buried lipstick (why can I never find it so easily?) unscrew the twist-on cap, apply an inch-wide ring of “Lingering Spice” around her mouth, and then carefully replace the cap, tube and purse, I enjoyed a few fleeting moments of peace.
OK, I’ll admit it: tantrums aside, I love this age. She is so funny, so snuggly, so persistent, so imitative. She sings along to her CD, she tries to ride the dog like a horse, she strips down to just her onesie and clomps around the house in my leather boots. When I had a gravelly voice after a bout with laryngitis last week, she spoke to me in a monster voice all day. She shushes me when she’s on her play phone, holding up her index finger in a “just a minute” gesture (she also gives me the "just a minute" finger when she's spending time in Poopin' Corner). I guess kids mimic what they see (me on the phone, that is, not me in Poopin' Corner).If I were walking around with big clown lips, someone would tell me - right?
