We're pushing about three weeks now where Cole won't sleep in his bed. That's sort of a lie. He'll sleep in his bed, so long as Bill or I are in the room. So we're also pushing about three weeks that Bill has been sleeping on Cole's bedroom floor.
At the moment? I'm writing this post from the rocker in the corner of his room while he naps. It's like prison. A prison of Toy Story characters, cartoon robots, and the omnipresent smell of applesauce and poops.
Anyway. It's been tough. I'm just about ready to yell "uncle" and see if Cole can live there. No, I joke. I'm really ready to move Cole's bed in our room. Just to make life easier for everyone and yes...to completely solidify the fact that an almost three year old runs my life. Just in case there was anyone out
there with any doubt. Mom: 0, Cole: to many to count.
I'm really glad that I've had friends and family tell me so much about these "terrible threes" that I'm clearly living with. It makes me feel less crazy. Actually? It kind of reminds me of how my mother describes me as a teenager; completely unstable and possessed by demons. Could this be karma. . .?
And of course this stage is coinciding with that wonderful stage of Till's when she becomes even more talkative, and funny, and so great to be around. The problem is that every time you're enjoying Till, Cole takes it as an invitation to let his inner wolves out. And repeat. And repeat.
Side note: The combination scream/whine from a small boy has got to be worse than any other form of torture out there. Worse than water boarding, worse than solitary confinement, worse than listening to my sister tell a story. . .
Just today, within the first two hours of arising for the day, Cole had dumped his cereal (including milk) on Till's head. . . on purpose. He threw a block at the TV. He called me a "bad dog". He had two time outs; one was for doing something he shouldn't have, and the second was for trying to sneak away while he should have been in the first time out. He attempted to color Till's foot. He ran his head into the front door while playing "race car" when I clearly told him we don't play race car. Not with our heads. He dumped a box of Cheerios out on the floor. . .you know. . .for a dramatic pause to our morning:
... and then he ate them. Fast. Because I was going to get the vacuum.
By the way, I was sort of laughing like a crazy woman with tears in my eyes while taking this picture. That's how much you mean to me. I'll go get the camera right in the middle of my breakdown, to take you to hell with me.
And the Tills really likes Cheerios. When she figured out what was going on. . .she lost it:
And it was a perfect reaction, actually. Because I was already crying, lying on the floor, snapping pictures of this nut-town. So Cole took advantage of the moment, per usual, and started yelling at Till to be quiet.
The really nice thing about this shot, is that if you look closely. . .you can see his head injury from earlier this morning.
Just in case you can't see it on your own:
Can you say "I told you so?" to a toddler and not be a jerk?
I do actually have a story for you about when the van died this week and a how a $25 dollar belt ended up costing us $700, but you're probably already late for something fun you planned to do on a Saturday. Something fun because you probably don't have an almost-three-year-old who's been possessed by demons.
Must be really nice to be you.
And so, this is why I haven't posted. And maybe why I should keep not posting. Except when I tell you the van story. Which you'll love. And will also have some vivid imagery of Bill screaming obscenities in the middle of the night while out on a gorgeous snowy, New England road. But not now, because I've been in Cole's room now for over an hour. . .and I just looked over at him. . .and he's sitting up, reading a book. It must be my typing.
All for another time. Cole's 3rd birthday is a week from today. And if I (and he) make it to then, I'm sure I'll have a bit more for you, too.
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