I take Clare into her room to begin her bedtime routine. She sees her pajamas and starts crying. I put her up on the changing table. She arches her back, trying to flip over onto her side. I turn her back over. She raises her hips and inches herself down the table until her head is hanging off the side. “This would go a lot faster if you would stop fighitng,” I say. She sits up, throwing her head back to get away from the offending pajama top. She is on her hands and knees, and I manage to pull the pajama shirt on over her head. It gets stuck. (Of course.) She is whipping her head from side to side while I try to pull it over her face. The shirt is on, the diaper off. She leaps forward, onto my shoulder, trying to escape the evil, evil changing table. I try to lay her back down. She stands up and grabs my hair. I lay her back down to put on her diaper. She screams. Repeat scene from the top with the pajama bottoms.
She is finally in her pajamas. I take her into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She cries. And screams. And tosses her head from side to side to avoid that awful toothbrush, which must taste like peas or be a vampire, the way she is acting.
I didn’t think this behavior was supposed to start until she was two, but apparently my baby is now a tantrum throwing toddler. Yesterday she was playing with a lanyard that had been left on the floor. I took it away from her, because, you know, it is not really a toy. She just had an absolute FIT. I actually yelled, “Too bad, I am the Mom” at her. Like she knows what that means.
Sigh. She is lucky she is so cute.