Margodzilla

Can we talk about this darling beastie for a second?

I’ve been working my way through blog archives, tagging and categorizing and reformatting old posts, and yesterday I came across this one I wrote a few days after Margot turned one. I am so glad I wrote it because “the most pleasant baby I have ever met” has turned into, um, the opposite of that.

(I’m trying to be kind.)

In so many ways she is still an utter joy and I wouldn’t trade her for all the baby pandas in the world. She makes up goofy songs, comforts her baby brother when he cries, has the most vivid imagination, and will play happily with her sister for hours at a time. Random strangers have complimented me on how well-behaved she is in public. People at church have told me, and I quote, “She is so sweet. She’s just an angel. She’s perfect.”

But you may be familiar with this old rhyme:

There once was a girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead,
And when she was good
She was very very good,
And when she was bad, she was horrid.

If that curly girl was horrid, I guarantee Margot is worse.

She’s not naughty, per se. I mean, she gets into mischief on occasion, but no more than any other curious kid her age, and probably less than many. It’s not so much disobedience or meanness or anything like that.

It’s the screaming. Oh my goodness, the screaming. Heaven help us all.

This “perfect” child of mine will scream bloody murder, in my face, while I hold her in my lap, for half an hour or more, because–and this is what makes her so delightful–she wants me to hold her.

I just cannot even. And clearly she can’t either.

She has thrown screaming fits over the last couple months at the following very reasonable provocations:

• Mila started eating before she did.
• I was nursing the baby.
• She wanted her blanket that was across the room.
• I would not stop nursing the baby to get her blanket that was across the room.
• I walked into the kitchen in front of her.
• David offered to get her breakfast.
• Her blanket got dirty because she dragged it in the dirt.
• Someone she didn’t know said hi to her.
• She didn’t like the song on the radio.
• The song on the radio was over.
• I wouldn’t let her have Cheerios for dinner.
• I wouldn’t let her have ice cream for dinner.
• I wouldn’t let her have sprinkles for dinner.
• Someone else was singing the song she wanted to sing.
• She couldn’t remember the words to the song she wanted to sing.
• We tried to help her remember the words to the song she wanted to sing.
• She peed on the floor.
• I wouldn’t let her keep her cousin’s “beeyouteeful” dress.
• I wouldn’t let her wear my dress.
• Her doll’s dress was too little for her to wear.
• I couldn’t make the doll’s dress big enough for her to wear.
• She wanted her clothes off.
• She wanted her clothes on.
• The ice in her cup  melted.

Et cetera and so forth until my head is going to explode.

Guys. We have been walking on eggshells around this child for months now. We live in constant fear that something, anything, might set her off…and predicting what that might be is like me attempting to cartwheel. It’s pointless and ineffective and now we all feel awkward.

Adding a third kid to my stay-at-home circus wasn’t enough. Having David travel for work more often lately–and sometimes internationally–wasn’t enough. Nope, everything had to coincide with our beloved middle child turning into a raging banshee at the drop of a sippy cup.

I can’t say we didn’t expect it. So far, we are two for two with the worst age ever being approximately two-and-a-half to three years old.

At least we know it will end.

Please let it end soon.

Amen.

All photos courtesy of Let Me See You Sparkle Photography

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