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Kenny, my sweet wonder-boy, has already managed to be ahead of the developmental curve in many areas.     He  started talking well before his first birthday, can now ask questions and speak in some semblance of complete sentences, sings several songs, and has even memorized parts of his favorite books to recite while we read.   It’s only natural that his gifted nature extends to starting The Terrible Twos early.

He has thrown tantrums here and there.   Mild, dramatic, significant, justified, random and perplexing.   But it’s just been this past week when I’ve come to realize that the inevitable has begun.   He will pitch a royal fit over the slightest inconsistency or seemingly incorrect judgement on my part.   A sampling from today:    

• I put his  juice is in the Thomas cup instead of the bulldozer cup.  
• I didn’t let him screw the cap back on the OJ all by himself.  
• I cut his sandwich into four pieces.  
• I moved the lego box to the other room.  
• I turned on the vacuum.  
• I sang along with the song he was singing (all by himself).  
• I actually meant it when I said, “One more book then it’s time for bed.”  
• I didn’t let him taste the dead bug on the floor.

Need I go on?   These tantrums involve a face so tragically sad that you would think I’d lost his favorite teddy bear.   The wails that emit from so tiny a mouth make my back teeth hurt, and the way he runs to the other side of the room to get away from me (while he cries, “Mama Go Away!”) make my stomach churn.   It’s bewildering, and yet I know that this phenomenon is merely par for the parental course.

When he’s not wailing with gut-wrenching sorrow, he is still the most delicious kid on the planet.   He gives fantastic hugs, loves to snuggle up with Mama and a good book, and is mastering the art of mixing chocolate chip cookie dough.   He’s my boy and I love him fiercely, but boy do I hope this terrible thing is short lived…