I have post traumatic stress syndrome. Not from my stint with the Marines.
Just my Wednesday morning with 2-year-old Chase.
I took the twins (and Summer) to a little sing-a-long thing and then afterward brought the three of them to the library. At which point, Summer proceeded to look for new Junie B. Jones books. Harlowe started flipping through some age appropriate board book. And Chase become a complete lunatic.
He ran around like a wild monkey.
He tried to climb on top of the computers that are reserved for civil activities like educational games.
And then he bit his friend Tess. TWICE.
He’s bitten her once before (a few months ago) and I dropped off a bottle of Prosecco at their house as an apology.
This time I left cookies.
If he bites her again, it’s going to have to be a car. Nothing flashy. Maybe a compact hybrid.
You know, long ago, when I had my first moms group in the city, I remember a boy about Chase’s age biting our dog. Yes, our dog.
At the time, I was like WTF?! What kind of kid bites a dog?!
I’m telling you, Chase would bite a dog. I’m sure of it. Just for fun.
Luckily, Chase also gives big juicy smooches. He’s a lover and a biter. Which is what makes him so beautifully complicated.
And when I yell at him (like my fiercest I’m not kidding around kind of yell), he laughs. Big hearty laughs that make me sigh with defeat.
I know what all you parents of rambunctious children are going to say. “Just wait Kelcey. Just you wait. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Yeah, that’s sort of what I am afraid of.