It never fails.
Cute shoes always end up killing your feet.
Cute toddlers always end up draining your soul.
The terrible twos have descended upon us. Throwing herself to the ground in a fit of hysterics, she tries to rip off the offending clothes that I have painfully struggled to put on her little body. There is screaming, kicking and crying. I wonder how she remembers to breathe. I kick into survival mode because I must have her dressed and out the door. This is just the start of the day. She continues to carry on her drama the entire way to daycare. I concentrate on driving the speed limit. Strawberry is close to tears because she can see that I am fuming and her little sister is obviously experiencing a traumatic event.
I take Buttercup to the toddler room. Her hair clings to her tear-stained face. Her bottom lip still quivers. She sees the daycare employee and within a brief moment her face lights up. She rushes over to give her a hug then she dismisses me with a smile and a wave.
"I love you," I reassure her. You little spawn of Satan is only a fleeting thought tacked on in my mind.
It's complete déjà vu as I went through this with Strawberry. These mornings of the world crashing in drama abruptly came to an end when she turned twenty-six months old. That was when her little sister was born and I pulled her out of daycare to spend leisure days at home with no more rushing to start the daily routine.
As there is no younger sibling in the works to rescue me from the destruction of the terrible twos, I am dreading the next three hundred and twenty-one days of hell. Like magic, on her third birthday she will turn into a picture of sweetness again, right? I am desperate for the power of reasoning through communication.