Now, we have all heard about the “terrible 2′s.” We prepare ourselves for it. Hell, I was in therapy just over the anticipation of it. But, we are told if we can just get through it, it’ll all get better from there. That our little darlings find “themselves” and suddenly, the exact day of their 3rd birthday, all of the hitting, scratching, yelling, tantrums, and “NO’s” just disappear. BULL SHIT! I was well into the 3′s before I truly let myself believe that all of the information I had been given was a complete load of crap. At about 3 1/2, it was beginning to look a little hopeless. If anything, things were getting worse. Sure, the hitting and scratching had disappeared (only because he was threatened within an inch of his life), but the tantrums and yelling were beginning to make me feel as though I should just lock myself in my room until he grew into a young adult. At that point, I’d rather have dealt with the black lipstick, skin tight pants, and random metal pegs sticking out of his body. All of the things us parents have to look forward to as the teen years approach.

So, I made it through the 3′s. Good lord, I made it through the 3′s. Only now, I’m at 4′s and I’m seriously considering buying a one way ticket to anywhere. Well, not anywhere. It’d have to have a nice sandy beach and a place that serves margaritas. Now I have to admit, I’m a little pissed off. I was promised, PROMISED, that all I had to do was get through 2 and it would be smooth sailing from there. Obviously, I went to the cheap shrink. Actually, I went to the ruggedly handsome, hunk-a-hunk-a burning love shrink. I guess there is a lesson to be learned here. There are times to be frugal and there are times to splurge… when you are literally losing your mind, don’t hire the cheap mass of masculinity to do the job.

Hunter is 4 1/2 now and some days I feel like crawling into a corner, huddling into a fetal position and tearing my hair out strand by strand. If only I could go back to the “oh-so-happy” and naive years when I thought there is just nothing that a good old popsicle and the “Chicken Dance” song can’t fix. Silly, silly, me.