Late-stage Pregnancy and the Terrible Twos in the Same House

                                                  Sydney: Terrible Twos
                                                           
My wife is in the stage of pregnancy where she just can’t seem to get comfortable. We are less than a month away and she has a giant medicine ball attached to her, so I’m not surprised.

“It is too hot in here” is often followed by, 15 minutes later, “It is too cold in here.” “This bed is too hard” quickly becomes ‘This bed is too soft.” When it comes to me, “Your very existence is pissing me off” can rapidly become “Where is the butcher knife so I can stab you in your heart?”

I really can’t blame her. She has spent nine months not eating carbs because of her gestational diabetes. That alone would make me breathe fire and spit nails. Now, with only three weeks to go, she could really use a pizza.

The other night she said to me, “I don’t ever remember being this uncomfortable with Sydney.”

To which I started to reply, “Well, you were. You just don’t remember. I lived through it and I can tell  you…”

I stopped my sentence midstream after noticing she was giving me a stare that could peel the paint off a bassinette.

Don’t mess with a pregnant woman. Just agree with everything she says.

It has gotten so bad, she is giving her dog away. I kid you not.

I’ve clued you all in on Murphy in a previous post. There is no doubt in my mind he would be in a special ed class if he walked upright. If I ever pen the book Murphy and Me, his exploits would put Marley to shame.

We have a small house. Sydney has an 8-yard by 3-yard play area that she shares with two dogs whom weigh nearly 100 pounds each. This is not a good recipe for fun when the dogs get excited, unless your version of fun is seeing your daughter used as a ping pong ball between two Chinese table tennis stars.

And Murphy is ALWAYS excited. If you go outside to get the mail, when you open that door after being gone for oh, 15 seconds, it is as if you went to Bora Bora for three months.

Add an angry pregnant woman into this volatile mix and you’ll find life can be a little tense. Brooke has vowed that the arrival of Baby Gregg #2  (name to be announced soon in a quick blog post) will necessitate a “break” from her beloved Murphy. He’s going to spend summer camp at his grandma and grandpa’s house, where there is a lot of green pasture for him to get excited about.

I have a feeling her mind will change after she delivers and can actually get a good night’s sleep for a change. Lack of sleep can cause edginess, I hear.

Or homicidal tendencies.

Brooke is not the only angry one in our house. My 19-month-old daughter seems to be hitting the Terrible Twos a bit early. More than once in the past month or so, I have asked myself where my sweet, beautiful child has gone.

She’s started screaming and crying when she doesn’t get her way. She doesn’t like to hear the word no, which may be the very word she hears the most since she is always getting into something she should not be getting into. The cupboards. The DVD player. Liquid Drano. The open bottle of wine her father intends to guzzle to get away from it all. You name it, she wants it.

When she gets angry and you try to pick her up and comfort her,  she’ll throw her head back, I guess in an attempt to get away. She’s come very close to knocking my teeth out a couple of times.

She seems to never be satisfied. Give her a room full of toys and she has to play with the Ipod in your hand.

I hate to say this, but my relationship with her lately has been similar to my relationship with a lot of my past girlfriends. Let me explain:

I had a girlfriend of several months about a decade ago and we went out on a Friday night. I spent the night, and that Saturday we went to an event that lasted most of the day. We then went out to dinner and back to her place, where I spent the night. On Sunday, we went to a town known for its antiquing (don’t ask) and spent the day there.

When we arrived back at her house, I told her I was headed home. She was angry that I did not want to come inside. I told her I had just spent the whole weekend with her and was ready for some down time.

This reasoning did not go over well.

“God, how much do I have to give?” I thought. “I spent all weekend with this chick, and she still isn’t happy. I give a little and she wants a lot. I can’t ever give enough.”

So I broke up with her.

Now, let me give you an example of how Sydney seems to fall into the same category. The other day, she was playing inside and wanted to go outside. So I took her out on the porch to play. That wasn’t good enough. So I took her to the yard/driveway. She played awhile there, but that wasn’t good enough.

She then wanted to go back behind our garage and into a gap between the garage and fence that was about two feet wide. Had she gotten in there, I am not sure my offensive tackle-like physique could have followed.

So, I pulled my best Anthony Munoz and blocked her.

This sent the tears gushing like Niagara Falls and the venom spewing like Mount Vesuvius. She spent the next fifteen minutes using all of her 30 inches and 24 pounds trying to knock me over so she could reach her intended goal. All the while, screaming and crying to the point I felt the neighbors might call 241-KIDS.

You give and you give and you give and it is never enough. They always want more and if they don’t get it, YOU are the bad guy.

She is well on her way to womanhood.

So, feel sorry for me. I have a pregnant wife and Terrible Two year old. I am living on the edge.

At least the wife gives birth on May 10. Sydney’s got more than a year to go, and I hear age 3 can be just as bad.

Forget feeling sorry for me. Pray for me.