My soon-to-be two-year-old son’s named Gage. His nickname, almost right from the very beginning, has been “The Rage”. While this kids has the most loving, tender heart ever, there is nothing gentle about him. Like a bull in a china shop, this kid is a whirlwind of terror everywhere he goes. If it’s sitting out, he will destroy it.
Have I mentioned that he has the strength of a million men?
As of recently, between my growing belly, and my exhaustion from managing him day in and day out, I’m starting to feel like he’s seriously put me (and his unborn brother) through the ringer.
Let me count the ways I’m getting my butt kicked by a two-year-old:
A few days ago, as I was carrying him up the stairs to go for a nap (that he of course wanted nothing to do with), he arched his back and sent us both tumbling up the stairs. Yes, up the stairs. I cringe to admit it, but my belly took the brunt of the fall. I’m by no means making light of this situation, it was scary.
Then later in the day, I needed to carry him to the car, instead of letting him walk on his own and he threw such a tantrum in my arms that I hurt something in my lower back. You know, like a never before used muscle.
Yesterday, as I was trying to change his diaper (again, something he wanted nothing to do with) he repeatedly kicked my stomach as he tried to squirm away from me. His sharp heel jabs gave me a good Braxton Hicks contraction.
Speaking of contraction, can you yell at your kid (because OMG you just discovered him on top of the kitchen counter where you keep the knives) with such emotion that it sends you into premature labor?
Needless to say, this kid is a handful, and I’m not really caring for him with much poise and grace lately.
I’m having another baby (boy) in 15 weeks. Hold me.
*note: I was just about ready to hit publish, when my son started crying from the other room. Apparently he just attempted to jump off the coffee table and split his lower lip open. He’s fine, and also very self-destructive.