I Wish You Could Purchase Patience at The Store

A long, long time ago, when this blog was a tyrannosaurus rex, I wrote about hitting a frustration threshold. At that time, Ari was a baby. I was lamenting about how I'm impatient, I became utterly frustrated when I couldn't figure out what he wanted or needed at 11 months old.

Nearly two years later, Ari can talk. I know what he wants most of the time, because he is hyper-verbal, which is a fancy phrase to mean that he doesn't stop talking.

Don't get me wrong, I love the fact that my son is loquacious and bright, but it makes for very challenging, and sometimes infuriating, days.

He tries to negotiate everything. I tell him "put your shoes on." He lies on the floor and begs me to help him with them. We get into a battle about the damn shoes. Finally, I say

"Okay, if you don't put your shoes on, you're not going to art class."

"I want to go to art class!" He shoots back.

"Then put your shoes on!!" I shout.

Then a yelling match ensues, and I end up feeling like a terrible parent, because my kid doesn't listen to me and his shoes aren't on.

We have the same battle with pants. We have the same fight about steak. We argue the same way about washing his hands. You get the idea.

I'm exhausted. I feel like singing that Tina Turner song "I don't really wanna fight no more. Too much talking baby!"

Sometimes I wonder if it's just me. Am I the only one going through this? Am I doing something wrong? How can I stop the arguing? Is this a developmental phase?

I was in a coffee shop today, and Ari and I were fighting over splitting a bagel. I told him we were buying a plain bagel, and I was going to have half, and he would have the other half. He insisted that he wanted the whole bagel. I told him, I only had enough money for one bagel, and that was that. He kept whining about the damn bagel.

A beautiful blond woman in a striking green coat, with a striped shirt underneath smiled from behind her lap top.

"I'm smiling because I have an 11 year old." She said. "That used to be me."

"Oh really?" I asked. "So does it get easier?" I questioned, eyebrows furrowed with anticipation.

"It does." She says. "Trust me on that. It seems horrible now, but I promise it gets easier. My son is my little buddy now."

I sighed a huge sigh of relief.

One of Wil's co-workers told him this:

"It's not the terrible two's you have to worry about, it's the terrible 3's and 4's."

Is it true? Is anyone else out there having these kinds of days?