By the time daycare drop off was finished and I was back in my car I just wanted to come home, curl up in a ball on my bed and stay there all day.
I don’t know what is going on with The Mayor nor do I have the first clue how to handle it and this makes me feel miserable, anxious and out of control.
He turned three almost a month ago and it's like a bomb exploded in his mind and body.
I have never seen such defiance, such tantrums.
On average, I can find my inner parenting Zen for about 80% of the tantrums but the sudden spike in his rage means that I am losing my cool -- a lot.
My patience. runs. out.
When it does, I take the bench and send K to the parenting field but neither of us have any good plays.
Time out is dead to The Mayor now.
I am the kind of person who is usually willing to face any challenge.
I am a problem solver, a solution seeker.
I am a “roll up your sleeves and get in there” kind of woman.
The problem is that I normally have an approach to the problem at hand.
In this case, The Mayor is a whirling ball of angry chaos and I haven't had any idea what to do about it but stare blankly and doubt my fitness for this mothering job.
Tonight there was, praise be to the great and powerful Oz, a glimmer of hope.
K gave The Mayor... the vacuum.
The Mayor vacuumed the dining room floor (covered in corn kernels and portending incoming fanetti poop), received high praise on his technique and was declared "in charge" of the vacuum.
I invited him to vacuum any room in the house at any time.
He gave me a smug nod of agreement, put the vacuum away for the night and, most importantly, did not challenge us to a throw down.
It seems a little power can calm a wee angry boy.
[I bow down to the vacuum.]