Dear Benevolent Dictator:
Five days ago, you turned 25 months old. We are firmly enmeshed in the "Terrible two" phase, but really, I see it as preparation for when you're a teenager. I may not understand why you're so pissed off sometimes now (because of the language problems), but I get the feeling, when you're a teenager I'm still not going to get why you're pissed off sometimes.
But that's where I'll also feel sorry for your father. Right now he gets a bitchy wife when she's PMSing. Can you imagine it when we're both doing that? I am now realizing that there's a reason why men tinker in the garage, den or basement -- it's to flee their hormone-addled wives and children. Or to avoid shoes being thrown at their heads by angry teenage girls.
Where was I? Right. Twenty-five months. Even though you are prone to fits right now, I have to say that I'm also having a lot of fun with you right now. We have conversations about things -- mostly dogs, cats, trucks and the terrible ants that swarmed up your legs when you stood on an anthill. You like to play pretend and cook for me and take "sips" from my coffee cup. You also enjoyed wearing my shiny new heels and prancing around the house in my bras. I hope you never have tits as big as mine. Despite when men say, bigger is not necessarily better.
I always knew that you were aware of your emotions, but this month, you really emphasized it. You were sitting on your training potty and I made some smart remark. You started to wail (as toddlers do) and went to the door. I asked what was wrong and you said something along the lines of "(BD) angry."
"Were you hurt by what I said?" I asked.
"Yeah."
Wow. That one blows my mind. You understand your emotions and how they work. You're barely two years old. Of course, I apologized and the tears dried and everything was quickly forgotten. Which is a bonus -- you don't hold grudges like I do (you never have). Once the tears are done, everything is bright and sunny again.
Despite this emotional maturity, we're still working on some basic social etiquette. Like sharing. You don't share well at all. Whenever you want something, you saunter up to the person, grab it and get into a tug of war. Complete with screeching. For some reason it reminds me of a sale in the fashion district of New York City. More often then not, the other kid will drop it with a facial expression equivalent to: "DUDE. OK! I DIDN'T WANT IT THAT BAD ANYWAY!"
You're also getting frightfully savvy with technological devices. You've successfully erased several apps from my iPod (yes, you play with it. I don't mind and apparently Hiya Beautiful doesn't mind being molested by sticky fingers as well) and enjoyed playing with a neighbor's Nintendo DS. You've also successfully killed one of your father's characters on the Conan MMO. I suspect it will be soon before you're fragging n00bs on Team Fortress.
If so, I will be proud to sponsor you for professional gaming. After all, college isn't cheap.
Love,
Momma
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