New balls for old…

Yesterday I wanted a do-over. I was rethinking my decision to have children. It’s a bit too late for that, I know. Too bad.

The dynamics of our household have morphed into some sort of hellish kiddie cruise where I serve as Head Chef, Cleaning Staff and Entertainment Director while D is Captain. Far too many hours are spent attempting to appease the fickle, unformed desires of a toddler with a ball addiction and a gift for the tantrum. I hate it. Seriously. Hate. It.

For the last couple of weeks it seems there is no pleasing the smallest member of the family. He’s a tyrant. He wants a ball. The green ball. Not that ball. The blue ball. No, the green ball. All the balls. But not those balls. Get them away from him. He kicks angrily and all the balls run for cover. Then he screams and thrashes and grunts his gutteral grunt-scream of intense displeasure at being ball-less and surrounded by adults that can’t. seem. to. under. stand. What is the matter with us?

Did I mention D is blind? While normally this is not a big issue in our house – lately it’s been a colossal pain in the ass. Mostly because of the ball addiction. Balls, by their very nature, roll. Why, oh, why, can’t he be hooked on something like blocks? Something that won’t roll away from him. Something, anything else. Really. We’re looking for a 12-step program.

We never used to have issues with discipline. B never got away with temper tantrums like this. The tried and true methods used with child number one have been worthless on child number two. Worse than worthless. No matter what we try he just screams right through it. He can’t hear us. We can’t even hear us. The entire universe is reduced to the loud screaming rant of a toddler. Ears bleed from the noise. Cats and balls run. The wailing doesn’t stop. We have yet to make it to his breaking point.

We’ve lost our parental balls… and I know just who’s got them.

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