This morning my little darling, Stephen, who will be three in August, demonstrated just why his age is called “Terrible Twos.”  After being told “no” when he wanted to pour more syrup on his already drowning pancakes, he threw a fit and tipped over the breakfast table. A cup of hot coffee landed on the dog, a glass of orange juice shattered with shards flying in all directions, and sticky, syrupy pancakes, sausage and fruit salad flew across the room, splattering the floor and even the walls. It was a scene not to remembered but not cherished.  Our first concern was the dog, who appeared startled and frightened but not injured.  The our attention was to the bad boy in the high chair. My frazzled partner, Kira, picked him up out of the chair with an “Oh My God, NO!”  She hauled him off for a time out in his room.  He was already bawling, as he was just as shocked at the aftermath as all of us. With a deep sigh, I began picking up the broken glass, sopping up the coffee and juice and lamenting the hot breakfast of blueberry pancakes I had just made going to waste, not to mention I was just about to have my first bite, and I was so looking forward to it. Stephen was still crying in his room, Kira took the dog out for a walk, and I cleaned up.  It was another Sunday morning in our happy home.  It wasn’t even 9 am yet, and my day was already just like most days, as I go from cleaning up one mess to the next mess and from tantrum to tantrum, trying to get through the day without any major meltdowns, just to wake up and do it again the next day. The other day when I mentioned this pattern to a fellow mom, she said, “You think the twos are bad.  Wait until you hit the Terrible Threes!”

The disaster that was our breakfast table

But for all the tantrums and messes, this is what I signed up for.  It’s all part of motherhood, and this is what I wanted.

When years ago I told a friend, actually an ex,  that I wanted to have a child, she warned, “It will change your life.  It will be all about the kid.”
“Yeah, I know,” I responded.  “I’m ready for it.”
The irony of this morning’s breakfast disaster was that the orange juice glass that broke into a hundred tiny pieces was the last of a set of crystal bar glasses given to me by, yes, another ex.  It was symbolic that the remnants of my old days as a swinging single gay gal are disappearing.
Those days are over.  Motherhood is my life now, and I do love it, even as I brace myself for the Terrible Threes.
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