Hell hath no fury like a toddler whose cup is orange when he really wanted blue. Ah yes, three-year-old tantrums. It’s a rite of passage that no parent can ever truly prepare for.
It’s like something out of a horror film. There you are, minding your own business in the canned vegetables aisle. Suddenly, a high pitched droning noise fills your ears. Everything around you slows down until that noise, that haunting noise, is all you can hear. The tiny demon shakes uncontrollably on the floor and innocent bystanders cower in terror. The horror… the horror
Letters from the trenches
I was there. I was once like you. I speak to you with the wisdom of a mother of a slightly older child (he’s four). I know the pain of being requested to make toast and then shouted at for making said toast. I know the humiliation of getting your pants pulled down in the post office by a tiny version of yourself. I know the torture of never being able to use your phone in the eye line of a tiny human who will not stop yelling about Peppa Pig.
I can tell you, hand on heart, that this anxiety you are feeling will fade. Slowly and in increments. The sentences will become more intelligible, the ability to reason will start to emerge and you’ll begin to be afforded some clarity instead of this ‘what the hell is going on’ mindset you’re in at the moment.