Wednesday, March 16, 2016
The Brit and I are fairly shaken.
We think- think - we've experienced an official tantrum. Like, a real one. For the first time.
I mean, I'm shaking as I write this, and I wonder if we're actually up for the job.
It's no coincidence that Sebastian turns two in a week, and something cataclysmically seems to have happened at precisely this time which makes it suspiciously coincidental.
Imagine our surprise when what we used to think was a tantrum: a bit of whining, and stomping of feet for maybe 2-5 minutes, some exaggerated crying and general protest because he's not getting a biscuit, actually turns out not to be a tantrum at all.
Holy mother of fuck.
Can whoever took my child in the night and replaced him with the devil incarnate, please bring him back? Oh dear God, please may we have the pre-2 Sebastian back?
(Can he at least be exorcised?)
Last night, at about 11pm, just as we drifting into that lovely deep, REM state of rest, he woke up. Got up to soothe him, in robotic half-sleep mode, only to have him rear up like a cobra and start screaming, thrashing to the point where we had to lie him on the floor in the lounge because he wouldn't let us touch him, and we were afraid that he was going to injure himself.
Thrashing, screaming (in such a manner that makes you want to throw a plate against a wall), trying to bite us and himself, for a solid forty minutes. While we desperately Googled "what is happening" "my two year old has gone insane is this normal" and "when to take your child to the emergency room is this an emergency what is an emergency define emergency."
Eventually, he burnt out at midnight and we carried him to bed, passed out cold. We wondered what on Earth had happened and kind of looked at each other with the kind of expression I'd use after witnessing something really traumatic unfold before me, like a train wreck or a nutter having a manic episode on a train.
We wondered if it was night terrors. Then fell asleep exhausted.
This morning, same thing. Refused to put his shoes on, be touched, thrashing and rolling around on the floor, screaming, trying to rip his trousers off.
Got in late to work as we couldn't leave the house, and diametrically opposite to Monday's feelings of guilt. couldn't get him to nursery fast enough today.
"Help us!" I implored when I got there, haggered and wondering if there was a priest around with rose water and a crucifix. "Help me, my child is imploding. Is this normal? Someone tell me this is a once off...please."
Apparently this, this, is what people mean when they refer to the terrible twos. A roaring, not-to-be-consoled child who just has to let it all out while you sit somewhere near him in the hope he doesn't hurt himself.
I mean, I can't even say what ticked him off - it might've been asking him if he'd like to get dressed, or maybe because I was wearing a white shirt, or maybe I put the toothpaste wrong on his toothbrush.
Maybe it's because he has been ill, maybe it's because his molars are coming out. I don't know. I just hope to fuck that this isn't a once-a-day thing, I just couldn't possibly cope.
Hashtag flailing through the dark, one parenting milestone after the next.