Things have been, shall we say, challenging, here in the Engel residence the last couple of weeks. Dash has been unpredictable and tenacious with his insane tantrums.
Just yesterday we were playing a game in the car that involved my inability to grasp the concept of milk (me: "is it like an elephant? with a trunk?" him: "nooo, mama, you can't drink an elephant!"). It was all pretty hilarious until it wasn't. Laughter turned, without warning, into his repeated, ceaseless attempts to literally kick my head off my shoulders. (I am certain that we have about two months before we have to move his car seat further away from the driver side if we want to rest assured that he won't be able to knock me out with a swift kick.)
There is no telling what will set him off. The only certainty is that it will be something. And it will be loud. And it will be long. And it will be painful to endure. He is, to put it mildly, going through a difficult phase.
Which sucks, because he's also going through this gorgeous, delicious explosion of personality that his evilness is eclipsing:
He has just moved, three months early, into the "big boy room" (official preschool, yo).
He has just grasped the concept of Halloween (he will be some permutation of Batman, but there's also a mysterious a "bad guy" angle that he's incorporating.)
He's totes potty trained, but he has refused to put on underwear or pants since 3 pm today. He says he wants to feel his "junk flapping around."
He chases me all over the house and hides behind the curtains trying to scare me.
He made rice and breaded chicken tonight.
He wants to go on scooter, big wheel, bike and wagon rides all over the neighborhood so he can wave at the gardeners and watch the bigger kids playing hoops.
He is like spicy food. Appealing and repellent. Irresistible but painful. These are hard times, but also, mainly, the times of our lives.