Losing Every Battle (or, Life with a Two-Year-Old)

Last night I took A for our nightly stroll. She has this tricycle:

She knows how to neither steer nor pedal so how it works is that she sits on it and I push her. Oh, and she rings the bell periodically. The other thing is that she requires me to keep both hands on the handle as I push the bike. She busts me on this all the time because she watches my shadow on the pavement and can tell if I have both hands on there. "Hold your hands!" she demands.

I actually push her pretty far - our nightly "walks" take about 30-45 minutes. Last night we were about ten blocks from our house when she refused to sit on the bike any longer. I tried everything to get her back on the bike. The kicker is that she also refused to walk. She wanted me to carry her. It didn't take long before I grew tired of holding 28 pounds on my hip while pushing the bike with my free hand. I decided to put her on my shoulders. As I was lifting her over my head I thought I detected an aroma.

"Pie, did you poop?"
"No."
"Okay, are you sure? Because you kinda smell like poop."
"No."

Why she lies about this, I have no idea. It's not like I'm going to open her diaper and somehow think that some third party has crapped in my daughter's pants.

So anyway, we walked the last ten blocks with her holding onto my ears and with me knowing that her poody was squishing around behind my neck.

We may not try the bike again for a while. How a toddler's brain works is just one of life's mysteries, I suppose. This morning she had a full-on tantrum about waffles. Yes, waffles. She loves waffles with surry-up (as she pronounces it). I guess her waffle got a little soggy this morning and she was having trouble picking up the cut-up pieces with her fork. I found her crying hysterically (crocodile tears and all) while madly stabbing at her tray with her Dora the Explorer fork. I put a piece of waffle on her fork and handed it to her. She pulled the piece off the fork and resumed the frantic stabbing.

Mine is not to wonder why . . .

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