Too Too Twoish

He doesn't scream. He doesn't kick. He doesn't throw things. He doesn't yell. He doesn't hit. He's pretty cool, as far as 20-month-old kids go. But god, save me from this teeth-grinding, fist-clenching MOI he's developed, in which he will wait until I am otherwise occupied with Carly (ie., nursing or bathing or diaper changing) to realize he wants - and isn't receiving - immediate attention. The self-righteous genes - passed down from both sides of the family, I can only guess - then proceed to alert the neurons in his brain that, lo, he is being short-changed dreadfully these past two minutes. He's realized that whining gets him a whole lot of nowhere, so that's out, and he hasn't figured out or found savory the aforementioned tried-and-true toddler tantrum list, so he has made up his own routine, that being climb to the highest possible flat surface, and proceed to push everything off that plane. This can be a nighttable ("Bye-bye, books! Bye-bye remote control! Bye-bye lamps!"), a kitchen counter (Seeya, cereal canisters! So long, peaches! Hey, napkins, have a nice flight!), or the dining room table (Ciao, candlesticks! Here Carly; catch!). This process will not stop, and in fact, will barely slow down, even if the large, irritated female authority figure (me) scolds him and physically removes him from offending surface. This process, unfortunately, will only stop once I cease and desist in attending to Carly for more than two minutes in a row and focus on him. To be fair, he has never taken any of his frustration out on Carly, and in a pleasant plot twist, still smiles to see her. But but but. Can't even finish the sentence; must get Kane off of fish tank.