Someone should have warned me sooner that terrible twos stretch out into terrible three, four, and five.
My little one will be three soon, and I was all excited, talking to my sister, telling her at least the terrible two phase will be over.
And five minutes later, after she composed herself, she basically told me I was an idiot. Yeah, I should have known it wouldn't be that easy, that three wasn't some magical age of perfect behavior, but damnit, I was in delusional bliss.
I used to shake my head at those people on Nanny 911 and all those other shows, wagging my finger and thinking they should be ashamed of themselves. Now, I'm not saying my little one is a plague upon my household, but I totally understand now. I GET it.
What I also get: It's totally my fault. Yes. It sucks.
I spoiled and coddled and cooed to my heart's content, and now, I'm paying the price.
So now I'm going to go chase him around, pick the things out of the toilet, and for dessert, get a toy chucked at my head and a penny shoved up my nose while I'm sleeping.
And I wouldn't trade it for all the chocolate in the world.