Mud & Mayhem

The terrible twos have arrived. Fully. Professionally. With zero warning and absolutely zero chill.

My two year old has overnight become two things simultaneously: a boxer and a pterodactyl. I did not see this combination coming and yet here we are. He walks — completely unprovoked, no buildup, no warning signs — across the room and slaps an arm, a leg, a back. Just chooses a target and executes. Muhammad Ali energy in a toddler body with approximately none of the sportsmanship.

We are doing all the things. Gentle hands. Gentle hands, buddy. That’s not kind. He receives this feedback and morphs immediately — and I mean immediately, like a switch — from tiny professional boxer into full pterodactyl. Screams at a pitch and volume that I cannot explain to someone who has not experienced it. It is not a cry. It is not a tantrum. It is something prehistoric that lives deep in the vocal cords of a two year old who has decided that correction is the greatest injustice ever visited upon him.

Our current intervention is mouse voices. What would Mickey Mouse say? How would he talk? It works more than it should. I’m not questioning it.

Here’s what I genuinely cannot figure out — is this worse than my four year old was at this age, or have I simply PTSD’d the memory into something more manageable than it actually was? Because I cannot remember it being quite this level. Either my first son was more chill at two, or my brain has mercifully edited that period of my life into something survivable. Both are possible. Neither is verifiable.

And the truly bewildering part is you never know what you’re getting. That’s what people don’t understand about this phase. It’s not consistent chaos — it’s unpredictable chaos, which is so much worse. He will barrel toward you at full speed and it could be the most enthusiastic hug of your life. It could be a kiss. It could be a lick directly to the face with zero explanation. Or it could be a hit.

A friend caught me flinching the other day when he came running at me.

“Why did you just flinch when your son ran up to you?”

How do I explain this to someone who doesn’t have boys? I flinch because I have been conditioned. I flinch because I do not know what is coming. I have to prepare for every possible scenario in the half second between him launching toward me and making contact — hug, kiss, lick, punch — and my body has started doing it automatically without my permission.

Head on a swivel. Every day. It’s the only way to survive this phase.

He is chaos in a small body and I love him completely. I would just also like to not be hit today if possible. Just one day. That’s all I’m asking.

---

Is the pterodactyl boxer phase a universal toddler experience or did I win some kind of terrible lottery? Tell me yours in the comments.