She's a horrible little girl. She's wonderfully smart. She's got big blue eyes and fine, golden hair. She screams. When I call for her to come to me, she stares at me like I'm a moron. When I ask her to stand, she sits down.
She's 22 months old.
She's my Toodles.
Yes, willful and wonderful. Bright and stubborn. Humorous and serious. Bipolar?
I guess the question is, should I battle her to ensure that she is the disciplined child that I seek to raise, or do I conserve my energy and give in to her little protests and demands. She dumps her plate to the floor every day. She knocks her milk or water to the floor every day. Getting dressed is a nightmare. Changing diapers is war. Getting out of the house requires an extra three to five minutes depending on how many times she runs away or decides to take a dump after I've put on her shoes and jacket and go to working on my own or JD's. In her car seat she bucks and straightens.
When is she easy? She is easy when it's 1-on-1 time and we're playing. Oh, at a park? A pleasure. Reading? Awesome. Puzzles, play-do, you name it.
But seriously, do I give in or do I stick to my guns? I get so fired up because I can be nice or I can yell and she doesn't care. My patience is wearing thin . . .