The joys of Two.

It’s official.

The Peach is 2.

As of January 15, 2014, I became the mother of a two-year-old.

As of March 26, 2014, she is still alive.

I’m quite proud of myself.

I may have mentioned before, The Peach is, linguistically at least, a fucking genius. Her speech is on the level of a 3-4 year old. Which is awesome.

Ok… It’s not awesome. It’s a hair pulling pain in my ass. There’s a reason 2-year-olds aren’t particularly verbose yet. It’s a hell of a lot less aggravating to get a screamed, “NO!” than a screeched, “NO, I DON’T LIKE BOCCOWI! BOCCOWI IS YUCKKY! I WANT GAPES! GAAAAAAAAPPPPEEEEEEESSSS!!!” This is, of course, within 24 hours of her announcing, “Mmmhmmm! Boccowi is deeeewishus!”

Her pronunciation has not yet caught up with her vocabulary (as evidenced by the boccowi). This, combined with her rapidly expanding lexicon and a short fuse has resulted in withering looks (are you really that stupid Mommy? I SAID ammamulmecamcle.) followed by stamping feet and occasional objects thrown at your head. And she hears herself saying it correctly.

“Animal Mechanicals?” (OMG, I can’t believe I was irritated with The Ponies. SO. MUCH. WORSE.)

“NO! Am-ma-mul-mec-amcle!” Very slowly. Because Mommy is obviously deaf, mentally deficient, or both.

She is funny. She lives to make you laugh and is frequently creative in how she does so. She has an incredibly expressive face and will twist it into crinkled noses and furrowed brows and huge grins and about 15 versions of “The Pout.” So when you laugh at Hickory Dickory Dock, because that cheeky mouse went up the cock, she grins and hams it up and now will probably never say it right.

But God help you if you incur her wrath. She hits. She spits. She throws things. Hard. And then, when she calms down enough to register the “stern look,” she hangs her head and says, dejectedly, “I go time out.” And when reminded that the Itsy Bitsy Spider did not get a time out as well, she cries. Loudly and with complete and utter bullshit. I swear, she doesn’t even try anymore. She actually wails, “Aaahhh… EhHehHehHeh… Waaaaahhh.” Yes. Seriously.

Oh, and apparently, potty training is for idiots. It’s much easier to have Mommy change your diaper. And she has told me so. “Mom, I peeewwwwp. Change my diapeh.” On one such occasion, as I have her squirming and half-naked on the couch, Crazy Girl attempts to reason with her.

“Why don’t you use the potty Peach?”

“No. Yucky. Mommy change my diapeh.”

“But Sissy uses the potty, don’t you want to be a big girl like Sissy?”

“No. I pee on Sissy.”

And then, a few days later, as The Peach is bent over in the living room, grunting and straining like a squat-thruster trying to set a new world record, I ask,

“Are you pooping?”

“Yeeesssssssss…”

“Don’t you want to poop on the potty?”

“Oooookaaaayyyy…”

Elated, I leap up from the couch, ready to bustle her into the bathroom in the hopes that the turd she is trying so valiantly to get out, stays in there until I get her perched on the toilet.

“C’mon! We go poop on the potty! Let’s Go!”

“NOOO I POOP ON THE FLOOOORR”

Princess Punk posted that little exchange on facebook.

She is in constant motion. She disagrees with every single thing you say, ask or do. She squeals and screeches at volumes that, by all rights, should crack the windows and every other piece of glass in our home. It is nearly impossible to keep clothes on her and changing her diaper has become an olympic sport. She won’t eat what you give her. She is stubborn and pushy and independent and opinionated. Basically… Two.

She’s also beautiful and smart and cheeky and turning into a pretty cool kid.

And she never fails to make me laugh.

Princess Punk gave The Peach a bath last night, wrapped her up in a towel like a little cocoon and plunked her on the bed for me to jammify.

“It’s a burrito baby!”

“heehe… Buwito baby!”

(squirms) “Oh No!'” She sounds truly alarmed.

“Whats the matter baby?”

“Wheh is my butt? (gasps) Wheh is my ‘gina?”

“…Um… Did you lose your vagina?”

“Yeah! (gasps again) Oh nooo…”

(squirms some more, then throws off the towel triumphantly)

“Deh it is! SU-PISE! HAPPY BUH-DAY!”

Just… Wow.

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