I can’t be the only person who’s noticed this, but I believe that living with a child is akin to living with someone suffering from multiple personality disorder. It’s like the United States of Tara minus the cursing and sex.
My son is the sweetest little dude. I still get all gushy mom-like just thinking about him. His latest? He’s enamored with Beethoven. We watch Beethoven flash mob videos on YouTube all the time. He points out the cellos, the violins, the oboes. He conducts. He headbangs to Ode to Joy in the car, immediately demanding “more Beethoven” when his favorite part ends.
Sorry. Gushy, as I said.
He’s generally sweet, sunny. He’s damn cute. He flirts with everyone.
And then something happens, and out comes the tempest. This morning, he howled most of the way to school. Why? Because I wouldn’t let him bring his giant-ass Lightning McQueen pillow pet with him. He’s never brought it with him before. It’s not like suddenly I became Asshole Mom who is separating him from his beloved McQueen.
After about 12 straight minutes of hysterics, I put on Ode to Joy. I had to do something. Stella was alternating between clapping her hands over her ears to drown out the screaming and staring at her brother, obviously trying to decide whether or not to smack him upside his head.
Thank god for Beethoven.