It happened today. I become THE MOM of THAT kid. The kid at music class throwing himself on the floor in tantrums. The kid ruining sweet lullaby time with whiny demands. The kid at the park shrieking like a pterodactyl because he wants to go down the slide, but doesn’t want other kids to line up behind him. The kid with alligator tears running down his face and snot dripping from his nose.
The mom who sighs in desperation. The mom who watches the kid writhe in the bark under the swings while calmly (or so it seems) drinking her grande-two-pump-soy-no whip-cinnamon dolce latte. The mom that EVERYONE is staring at, thinking does she give him too much sugar? Does he not get enough sleep? What is her problem?
Well, he’s 22-months-old. The twos are approaching. They don’t call them terrible for nothing, I guess. As he falls asleep on the ride home, I call my husband. “We need to take some parenting classes or read some books, cause I’m about to quit this job.”
