I'm living with this Tiny Tyrant

...and man, is it exhausting.

I don't even know where to start. I mean, I can kind of understand where he's coming from, at least sometimes. He's small, and and the world's big. He has very definite ideas and opinions of his own, but even so, somebody else makes all his decisions for him-- what to eat, what to wear, what to play and when to play it and who to play it with, where to go and when to leave, when to take a nap and when to take a bath and when to go to bed, you know, all the frivolous freedoms that we adults take for granted; I can see how that would grate on a little person with a big independence and frustrate him immensely. I can see how said little person would go ahead and make said frustration known the only way he knows how-- by screaming, and kicking, and hitting, and body slamming himself about. It's tough when you're 17 months old.

But I try to tell him that we're on the same team, me and him. I try to let him win as many battles as I possibly can. I don't fight him on the small stuff, and I barely fight on the big stuff. He pretty much runs the show around here, so I really don't understand why he is still such a big fat angry bossy pants all the time. Take today for example: We wake up. He has tossed Lambie overboard, and desperately wants her back. I don't putz about; I fucking JUMP TO and grab up Lambie as fast as I can. He still screams. Then we go out to the living room. Tiny Tyrant wants to sit on the couch and watch The Wiggles. I don't argue, I don't give him any sanctimonious crap about 17 month minds getting rotted by TV. I fucking JUMP TO and put the Wiggles on. Tiny Tyrant does not want any breakfast. He does not want pancakes or oatmeal or rice chex. He does not want bananas or milk or a slice of toast and jam. Tiny Tyrant does want blueberries. I'm not trying to fight him, I fucking JUMP TO and give him the blueberries. I'm too exhausted to relive this. I am just going to stop and pretend it never happened.