Do you really have to ask why I'm hysterical? You might think it's funny to write a blog post about why I throw tantrums and how you just can't deal with it. But I don't.
In my opinion, you're the one being ridiculous.
You get overwhelmed for no reason at all, and now you want to give everyone a very biased view of why I do what I do. In my defense, I have very good reasoning for wriggling out of your arms, throwing myself down and pressing my face into the floor. Why don't you comprehend that?
No matter how much you ignore me while I'm doing it, throwing a tantrum seems to me to be my best option. Here are my top five reasons why a tantrum is my go-to:
In this case, you're making me brush my teeth. BRUSH MY TEETH! Don't you realize that I HATE brushing my teeth? I don't care that the toothbrush has Iron Man on it, the bristles are itchy. Why do you continue to force me to do it?
And don't you see that throwing my green basketball at the TV screen takes priority over putting on my shoes or laying still to change my diaper? And what in the world is the purpose of a bath? I'd much rather sing along and dance with Barney than deal with you scrubbing my marker artwork off my legs.
Just give me the camera, will you? Who cares if we're in Puerto Rico, and you're just trying to capture me happily sitting in my carseat on our way to the beach? I'm going to ruin it by opening my mouth wide, showing you all my un-brushed teeth and screaming so hard my tongue vibrates. GIVE IT TO ME!
Yes, we're on a Kiddie Cruise just for me and yes, you got my face painted with Mickey Mouse, but you took away my balloon. It's MY balloon, and I was playing with it. It's not fair that you don't want to keep bending under the fan to get it.
And as for all those other things, you keep taking away from me--my stepbrother's car with small parts, your cellphone, a battery from the TV remote, your MacBook Pro, your headphones, your cell phone--can't you see that I NEED them? What else am I supposed to play with in this place?
So when I do get excited to brush my teeth, you won't let me do it by myself! How else am I supposed to eat all the toothpaste off the brush if you won't just hand it to me? And I'd LOVE to put my shoes on myself. Who cares if they never get on? You have to let me try for at least thirty minutes before you force them on me.
Mama, when you call me a "wild child," just accept the fact that I'm wildly tired? Clearly, I'm crying on the floor because I'm in desperate need of rest. You've tired me out by forcing me to brush my teeth and take a bath and chase you down for the playthings you took away from me. Put me in my crib so I can whine myself to sleep.
P.S. I love you, but I don't think it's fair you take photos of me crying to use against me at a later date.