Sarah has been growing by leaps and bounds lately. She has words and signs now. She cruises around the furniture. She eats meatloaf like it's the last food on earth. But with these new found advances there are also a lot of new frustrations.
She gets particularly upset when I dare to shoo her away from the cabinet under the sink. Or when I insist on changing her diaper. Or, the worst, when I barricade her in the family room with an ottoman and heavy box of toys.
Then my little angle will scrunch up her face, turn red, wring her hands, arch her little back and let out a big, angry yell. She will squeeze her hands together or grab my hair or arm skin and squeeze as hard as she can. She grinds her teeth and kicks her legs and giant tears immediately shoot out of her eyes.
I wonder if this is a glimpse into the future. Dragging a beet red, screaming child from a checkout line at the grocery store, restraining a huffing, arms folded, stomping little girl in time out, my own little Veruca Salt yelling, "I want it now!"
I doubt that is where we are headed. I have more confidence in my own parenting. (Or blind arrogance; I haven't had to deal with any serious kid meltdowns yet.) But as I slap myself on the head, "DUH:" my two children are different.
Right now, Sarah is so cute when she throws these mini-tantrums. She just doesn't have the words yet to tell me how much I am ruining her life. I just pick her up and move her away from whatever the household danger of the minute is and set her down near something distracting. Yesterday, my peace offering for barricading her in the family room was a bowl filled with a variety of spoons. That seemed to do the trick; I got the dishes done.
Jack is still very two. (I hear that three isn't much better.) And this house isn't big enough for the wills of two toddlers.