This morning we went as a family to an Easter egg hunt at a local church. The Beast had been talking for days about getting eggs, so even though he still had a little bit of a runny nose, we decided to let him go.
Believe it or not, this story is not about The Beast wreaking havoc at an Easter egg hunt. I fully expected him to knock over other toddlers or steal eggs from other kids, but he was actually adorable. He wanted to stop and open each egg before he put it in his basket. It was cute and sweet and I should have known it was an omen of doom.
On the way home we let The Beast have a piece of chocolate. We really wouldn’t have cared if he had more under normal circumstances, but he refused to eat his breakfast this morning so I didn’t want him to consume a ton of sugar on an empty stomach because I had no desire to clean chocolate bunny vomit out of the van.
In addition to the chocolate, The Beast also decided to eat the foil wrapper it came in. I have no idea how much of the wrapper he ate, but I’ll likely find shiny blue foil in his diaper over the next few days.
As usual, none of that has any bearing on the actual point of this post. Although, perhaps The Beast’s supervillain powers are somehow strengthened by consuming aluminum foil because when we got home he unleashed the first apocalyptic fit of the day.
He refused to eat his lunch and wanted more candy. When he kept refusing we finally just decided to put him down for a nap. It took more than an hour of him screaming, hitting the door and just generally being awful before he finally fell asleep.
Virginia Slims Man had a few errands to run, so he left. I did a little baking and The Good One watched T.V. and cut open key limes for me.
It was suddenly a beautiful day. The previous fit was now a memory and it was a day of joy and peace and quiet and hope, just what you want the day before you celebrate the resurrection of your Savior to be.
And then Satan decided he had had quite enough of watching us be happy and opted to unleash Armageddon.
(I’m pretty sure my theology is all jacked up here. I have no idea who unleashes Armageddon. Or if it’s even an unleashable thing. Feel free to assume all of my theological imagery is wrong.)
So, The Beast woke up and immediately wanted candy. I had saved his sandwich from earlier and told him that he couldn’t have any treats until he ate his sandwich.
Well, that was not what he wanted to hear and he voiced his displeasure by screaming, “I DON’T WANT A SANDWICH!” as loud as he possibly could. I recently read an article that said to ignore kids when they throw a tantrum because it’s all about getting attention, so that’s what I did.
He kept screaming at me. He screamed at me that he wanted an applesauce, and then when I handed him the applesauce he screamed that he didn’t want applesauce.
When I asked The Good One to keep an eye on him while I went to pee (Yes, I said pee. We’re friends now. You know I pee and I know I pee. Deal with it.), The Beast screamed, “NO, MOMMY, YOU DON’T GO PEE!”
Then he started banging on my bedroom door and begging me to put him back in his seat so he could eat his sandwich.
I calmly put him in his seat and started to remove the sandwich from the sandwich bag, and he started screaming, “NO, MOMMY, YOU DON’T TAKE SANDWICH OUT OF THE BAG!”
When I picked up my phone, he screamed, “NO, MOMMY, YOU DON’T TOUCH BUTTONS!”
He threw his plate at me, but I’m totally used to that so it really didn’t bother me. And I was so proud of myself because I remained completely calm throughout this entire verbal and physical assault which lasted (no exaggeration) for over an hour.
And then, in one final burst of chocolate-bunny-foil-fueled anger, he screamed that he wanted his applesauce back, and when I handed it to him, he threw it at me.
And that’s when I lost it. I know that’s when I lost it because I saw the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse gallop down our street.
I picked up the applesauce and hurled it angrily into the sink. I grabbed the still-wrapped sandwich, pounded it with my fist and threw it in the garbage can.
The Beast started screaming that he wanted his sandwich and applesauce and tried to get them out of the garbage can. I told him that he was not getting any food until dinnertime because he had his lunch in front of him for over an hour and refused to eat.
The Beast started begging for his sandwich, but I knew this was just a power play and that there was no way he was going to eat, so I again told him no and that’s when he picked up the step stool and hit me with it…twice.
I could feel the anger overtaking me. I was pretty sure my eyes were going to blow completely out of their sockets from the rage. I could not take the screaming for one minute longer and I called VSM and told him he needed to get home NOW!
The screaming didn’t stop. It just got louder, and I knew that I was on the verge of a complete breakdown, so I told The Good One to watch The Beast and I went outside on the front porch and cried.
After a few minutes, I knew I was calm enough not to beat anyone with a skillet and went back in the house. The Beast was still screaming. The Good One, being the sweet boy that he is, told me to go to my bedroom and rest, but I could no longer in good conscience allow him to play parent.
So I went into the kitchen, followed by the screaming Beast, put my head on the counter and prayed for my husband to get home quickly, and then like a miracle, he walked in the door.
Take that, Satan. (I probably shouldn’t say that. It sounds like I’m taunting Satan. I know I screw up a lot of my theology but I know that no good can come from taunting Satan.)
I went and sat on the front porch and cried some more and then I drank a margarita to make myself feel better.
I’m not an alcoholic, but I think I would like to be.
The Beast’s name, which we put a lot of thought into, means “Who resembles God.”
Boy, did I jack that one up.
P.S. Please tell me I’m not the only mother who’s had to leave the house so that she didn’t skillet (That’s now a verb. Use it.) her child.