It's been one of those days when I have to ponder the question, "does my kid have a behavior disorder?" And you know those can never be good days. The words I HATE YOU have lost their potency, which I'm sure causes my son a great deal of ire. That's his zinger and he's used it so much I'm immune to it. I see his tiny little wheels turning, and I know he's sifting through his mental catalogues of devastating insults for mom. I thought a nap just might turn the tides, but alas our sweet babysitter caught the tail end of his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. That's cold, little dude.
What I wouldn't give to be inside his complicated little head for a day. I'm learning not to be surprised when he walks out the front door with his determination face on ready to run away. The respect for my parents and the job they had dealing with me as a child grows tremendously on a daily basis. What I wish I had was a padded room used specifically for throwing tantrums and a circular track for running out negative energy. What I have is a Little Tykes grocery cart that gets thrown against his door when he's angry and a dwindling confidence that I'm steering him through his impulse control stage of development with my GPS set to the right destination. I just keep telling myself I survived it with Camden and psyching myself up to go through it for the third year in a row by the time Lawson hits this age. I'll be an old pro by then.