The bad week.

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Last week was arguably one of Vivi’s and my worst weeks. I mean, really I should say it was one of her worst weeks, behavior-wise, but I don’t feel like I handled everything as well as I could have.

I know, I know, I just got done telling you how magical two is. But while all I said in my last post is true, the fact is, two is still really challenging.

Two doesn’t reason. Two doesn’t bother with logic. Two commits wholeheartedly to the strangest things and fights, teeth (literally) bared, to get its way.

That was my daughter last week. Her sass has been at an all-time high, bordering on disrespect to both her father and me, but also our adult friends. Every instruction provoked an argument, even when I tried this that would normally get her to happily acquiesce.

For example: We have a hard and fast rule that, if you made the mess, you clean it up in our house. While Vivi is never thrilled to pick up her toys, I can usually cajole her into cooperating if I first sit down by the mess and say, “Can you help me clean this up?” Then she’s usually pretty happy to be involved.

Yesterday? Nah.

People who follow my Instagram stories saw my series about Vivi’s meltdown over picking up the potty she had flung across the floor. It was pretty epic. (I won’t share here to avoid triggering stressed out parents 😉

After that 30-minute screamfest (that ended with her wetting her pants to spite me, hoo-boy), Vivi managed to maintain her bad attitude through gymnastics (her FAVORITE thing), lunch, and most of the afternoon. We finally went to a friend’s house to at least give us a change of scenery, which seemed to help.

The thing is, toddler freakouts? Pretty normal. Whenever my husband or my parents or a well-meaning person asks, “What is wrong??”, the answer is (99.9% of the time), “Well, she’s two.”

What I want to get better about is my reaction. A lot of people who witnessed yesterday’s stand-off complimented me on my patience, which I appreciate because OH MY GOODNESS SHE DRIVES ME CRAZY SOMETIMES. My patience is a constant work in progress.

But what didn’t make it to the Instagram reel (because, let’s be honest, I’m only going to show the #truelife moments that I think will entertain) was the moment she wet her pants out of spite, and I lost my cool. After cleaning her up and then making her clean up her toys in the living room (I had to win SOMETHING here), I took a minute to sit with Vivi. I apologized for losing my temper. I reminded her of our house rule about cleaning up after ourselves. We hugged and kissed and said we loved each other.

Life went on, and a few minutes later she was wreaking some other kind of terror.

Honestly, we’ll both probably forget this week, this “fight” we had. (Well, maybe not since I’m memorializing it here.) One day, very soon, Vivi won’t be two anymore. One day, she’ll be able to reason. She’ll bother with logic. She’ll probably always be a tough cookie, but she won’t be a terror.

In short, it will get better. But for now, for those of us still in the thick of it, here’s a video of us taking deep breaths to calm down (you’re welcome):

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The motherhood metamorphosis

I’ve been reading a lot of articles lately about the subject of identity and motherhood.

Partly because it’s my job. But partly because I feel like it’s one of those things I’ve slowly been working out for the last two years.

When I first got pregnant, I was so absorbed by the process. I’m one of those freaks who LOVED being pregnant 99.9 percent of the time, and I was fascinated by every single bit of it. (Classic nerd.)

After Vivi was born, I had no other choice but to be consumed by mama life. And here’s a fun fact about me: When I see no way out, I find a way to love it. Really, I’m too Type A to see all these lemons sitting out and not try to make them useful. Ergo, the lemonade of early motherhood.

Longtime readers will also remember that I made a very active effort to truly appreciate every bit. Loads of people want to be parents and can’t for whatever reason; who am I to take this actual miracle for granted?

And I can’t honestly say that I HAVE enjoyed every stage of Vivi, despite those “the days are long” moments that surely I did not enjoy at the time. I recently told a pregnant pal that my strategy for pregnancy and babies (and toddlers) has been to go in with the lowest expectations. After that, anything seems pretty okay!

But another fun fact about me: I commit…and not always in a good way.

I go all in. I’ve done it with jobs, I’ve done it with relationships. There have been so many times in life I’ve gotten six months into something and then paused to think, “Wait…what happened? Who am I? How did I get here?”

It’s a weird quirk, and it has led to some difficult self-reflection moments.

So going into motherhood, I made a conscientious effort to NOT do that. I made balance one of my top priorities.

That’s why I kept the jobs (Okay, that was also to pay the thousands we owed the hospital/buy groceries). That’s why I went back to working out as quickly as possible. It’s why I clung to the little things that made me feel like post-pregnancy Justine.

But, here’s the funny thing about motherhood: It’s not like a new job. It’s not even like a new relationship. It’s not about giving things up or even really adding things in.

Motherhood is a metamorphosis. You enter one thing, but you emerge something entirely different.

I hear so many people say they don’t want to lose themselves in motherhood, and truly that was one of my concerns too. But, really, that’s not what happens. You are not getting lost—you’re becoming an entirely different creature. It’s an evolution that would never have happened if you took a different path.

Because you actually get to keep the parts of yourself you like. And everything else gets refined.

Mamas are efficient, so we are skimmed down to our most necessary parts. We are adaptable, so we grow the new abilities we need to do and thrive. We are resourceful, so we develop the skills necessary and walk away stronger than we could have ever been.

Truth is, I can’t actually stop being who I am. But whereas that realization usually came in a jarring moment with other life transitions, with motherhood, it was a gentle waking up. A stretch where I suddenly realized new muscles had developed overnight. This new “Mama” on my resume makes me look and feel more powerful, not less.

The fact is, I never lost my identity. I let it grow.

What they don’t tell you about two

The terrible twos carry a lot of noteriety. They’re called “terrible,” for goodness sake.

Everyone tells you the same things, but they all carry the same message:

You’re in for it now.

You’re warned of tantrums and fights and struggle. You’re warned that you’ll just have to bear through them.

And while it’s true that two comes with an abundance of challenges and steep learning curves, there’s so much more to be said about two.

No one tells you that this is the age you get a person. This is the age you get a side kick, a partner in crime, a fellow adventurer.

This is the age of silly, nonsense conversations, stories of horses and planes only she seems to see. This is the age of requests for tickles and cuddles and cookies, for serious chats about pretending to be bears and pies made out of pancakes.

This is the age of mischevious, toothy grins and dancing with abandon. Of singing made up lyrics at the top of lungs and crayon scribbles that are actually people and pets.

This is the age of belly laughs and whispered secrets never told. This is the age of the sweetest “dank you, momma” and the sassiest “I gon ticko you, mommy!”

It’s also the age you enter a new season of mamahood. When you start knowing the solution more often than you don’t. When you catch the sippy cup before it hits the ground and stop the speeding toddler before she knocks the plate off the table.

It’s the age when you carry less and sleep more. When you find yourself relaxing more often than you leap. When you start to trust yourself as well as your child. (Okay, your toddler isn’t still probably lying about not needing to use the potty, but #winsomelosesome.)

Two is the age when you start really parenting, which is great timing because you actually start to feel like a capable parent at the same time.

There’s a lot they don’t tell you about two, and there’s a lot I can’t tell because it would take ten thousand words. But suffice to say, it’s a special, frustrating, magic time.

And I wouldn’t trade two for the world.