Terror: Thy Name is George

I recently replaced these photos of George on my desk . . .



. . . with these photos of George.


Isn't it amazing how quickly time flies? He's growing up so fast and the surest sign is that he has turned into a full-fledged, red-headed, two-year old. I add the qualifier of "red-head" in there because he is way more "outspoken" than the previous two-year olds I have experience with. i.e. Luke and Evie as pictured below (and neither of them were red-headed).





George, on the other hand, is a full on terror. I know he looks cute, but don't be lulled by those adorable eyes and charming smile. He knows what he wants, he wants it now, and you will face his wrath if you don't let him have it. And his weapon of choice is a stick which he uses to wail on his brother and sister and if there isn't a stick handy, he just lays on them, fully aware that he can throw his weight around. His terror isn't limited to his siblings either. Chuck and I are certainly subject to his wrath as well.

For example, last night it happened to storm just as I was putting the kids into bed - why would it storm at any other time, right? Well, George is the only child in the house that is legitimately scared of storms and he cries when it thunders. Now I'm a busy mom, but I'm certainly not cold-hearted. I knew he was scared but I also had things to do downstairs, so I allowed him to sleep with Evie so that he could be comforted by her presence. All was quiet upstairs and I sighed with relief thinking that the children were all slumbering peacefully until half an hour later the door upstairs slammed shut. Of course, I hopped up and raced up the stairs to see if all my children were alright. I peaked in the room and low and behold Luke and Evie were sound asleep, but George looked up at me from under the covers with his sweet innocent eyes. I told him to go to sleep and then went down stairs. Seriously, who can resist this?


This cycle continued for an hour and included not only more slamming doors, but the "pitter-patter" of little feet down our upstairs hall as well as the occasional mewl of, "Mo-meee!" down the stair case. Each time I would return and try to tuck him back into his own bed, but he was insistent that he had to be with Evie. But when I finally went upstairs to bed at 10:30 I gave up and put him in my bed - to which he whined and cried. Then I put him in his bed where he again whined and cried. I left him there. Perhaps I am cold-hearted.

I finally ended up sitting by his bed with my head resting at his feet until he fell asleep (because I'm a sucker). At 2:30 a.m., he woke up again and insisted, "I sceered storm." I said, "It's okay. Want me to sing you a song?" He answered, "No." In spite of his answer, I tried to soothe him with a song, to which he responded in a forceful whisper, "Stop it." I kept going. He repeated, "Stop it." I stopped. Then he announced, "Daddy bed." In my delirium, I was pissed that he would ask for "Daddy bed" which is also my bed since I'm the one that actually hauled my ass out of bed to comfort him, but whatever. So, ultimately, the kid ended up in my bed and I ended up sleeping on the edge of the mattress and the pillow with a rotating mixture of appendages in my back. Bless that little precious one. (Yes, my teeth are gritted).

Yes, he is cute, but he's also a pill. Trust me.