Terrible 2s tests parents’ sanity

“The Princess” has officially entered the terrible-twos this week, almost three months shy of the second anniversary of her birth.

Overnight, our sweet, engaging, obedient and adorable youngest girl child has become argumentative, temperamental, incredibly stubborn and apparently delusional in that she truly believes if she yells and screams and sobs loud enough she will be given her own way — in everything.

Actually, that does tend to work with her father, who likes his eardrums more than I do.

As soon as the child’s temper and high degree of frustration became apparent over the past week, my husband and I both knew what was happening.

I firmly believed that we were watching the onslaught of the dreaded terrible twos take place.

My husband firmly believed we were watching the onslaught of the Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and still insists that his little princess will be coming back any day now. I live in the state of Alaska; my husband lives in the state of denial. I think he likes it there.

Currently, every movement in our house is accompanied by screams, tears, tantrums and fits. But I usually manage to pick myself off the floor before I start sobbing incoherently in order to focus on the children.

The Princess now insists on wearing only her pink and yellow flip flops from last summer every time we leave the house. Which wouldn’t be so terrible in itself, except when I mention she only wants to wear them, I mean that’s all she wants to wear? She rips off her pull-up diaper, shrugs out of her shirts and wiggles her pants off. My daughter is a 21-month old nudist in yellow sandals. Apparently she doesn’t want her feet to get cold.

My husband, who completely missed our son’s 3985 months of his own version of the terrible twos, simply stares at his Princess in shocks and wonders aloud when the body snatchers will return his adored and adoring infant.

I, on the other hand, watch our youngest’s antics with a bittersweet smile. I am well aware that by behaving the way she does, she is growing up and asserting her independence. She no longer beseechingly runs to me with arms outstretched, begging, “Up, Mommy. Up, up.”

Now when I reach for her tenderly, she runs off in her too small sandals, screaming, “NO! Walk! Walk! WALK!”

She now insists on picking her own clothes out, and I want it noted that I no longer have anything to do with her wardrobe.

Just a month ago, I was still carefully selecting her coordinating wardrobe pieces, matching everything from her shirt to her socks to the bow in her hair. No more, she now yanks on the clothes she wants in her closet until they give up the fight and collapse off her hangars.

I never thought I would pity an Osh Kosh one-sie, but now I do.

However, I don’t mind letting her select her daily clothes. At this point, I wouldn’t even mind her choice of plaids and polka dots if she would only actually leave her clothes on.

Sometimes the only thing that helps me get through the days of her alternately screaming and stripping are the photographs I have lately taken of her, photographs I can assure one and all I am going to be absolutely, positively delighted to display in a slide show at her wedding one day.

My husband only hopes the body snatchers will have brought back his precious, angelic Princess by then.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, was deployed to Iraq and returned home in December. She writes every Sunday abut life at home as a wife and mother.