When I had my daughter my son was going on 23 months. My daughter was colic and slept in 1/2 hour clips, and nursed when she wasn’t sleeping or crying and my son had a speech delay which made him prone to tantrums. Life wasn’t easy but I loved them both and writing has always been a great stress reliever for me.
I started a blog for my son called My Life As A Precocious Toddler and wrote in his voice. I found it both fun and therapeutic. Here is the first post ever written as my 2 year old.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Hey, can we talk? I want to discuss my parents.
Dude I know I need them and everything, my being 2 and all but give me a freakin’ break.
Let’s take today for instance. I ask for a crayon. Mom looks at me and says “what?” I mean hello! How else do you say crayon? I try again all the while pointing to the shelf where she keeps the damn colored yum, yum taste so good sticks of wax.
I see a light bulb go off over her head and she hands me a broken piece of putrid green crayon and tells me to get my paper. I scream and slam my hand on the table.
A damn crayon women! She says, “that is all there is” and then I hear that pink bundle of “pain in the ass” start her opera.
My sister came into our home 2 months ago and nothing is right! Mom takes off to pick up the screeching pink bundle and I grab her legs as she tries to pass me. A crayon! Damn am I invisible?
I take the stupid piece of putrid wax that she handed me and reach for the flash cards she took out of the drawer an hour before. She said get paper and this sure looks like paper to me.
She moves the flashcards out from under my crayon and says, “not on those!” What? She didn’t specify what paper I can use. Paper is paper. Damn her, she is always stopping me from doing something I want to do.
While she sits down to place her plump, dripping, flesh pillow into my sister’s mouth I take the crayon and opps miss the little piece of paper she handed me. Wow, the crayon looks really good mixed with the color of the Ottoman. I keep going. Maybe just maybe, Mom and Dad will love my art work. They rave over every stupid mark I make on paper they are going to love this.
I take my time, putting a lot of thought into the amount of strokes, the direction of my lines and the amount of pressure I apply to my art project. I am totally in the zone and the next thing I know my mom is screaming “No!” God how I hate that word.
Ripping the crayon from my clenched fingers and placing me in time out. Huh? She is so ungrateful. That is the last time I try to impress her. As I sit in my time out I contemplate my next art project. I have been checking out the wall next to the TV, I think it could use a few dashes with a key to give it that subtle texture look.