No doubt about it, Girlchild is two.
She's more of a traditional terrible two than her brother ever was. There's nothing like a cold and a couple of new molars to bring out the two-ness in a girl.
Everything - absolutely everything - is becoming a battle. Things that used to be favourites are now, well, not. Things that used to be easy and taken for granted are now officially fronts requiring heavy artillery.
I'm not really surprised by this. Girlchild has always been a bit of a spitfire. I wouldn't call her a spirited child, but she has never been quite as compliant as her textbook/easy brother. (Of course now he is known as the worrier. Vern the Worrier, we call him, even though his name is not Vern.)
I can't say I have rolled with this new two-ness that has emerged, though. I blame the fact I'm Type A and things have to be just so and on time. Oh, and I blame my elbow, of course. My elbow is giving me serious, serious grief at the moment. I'm guessing it's Tennis Elbow, because I'm such a freakin' athlete [cue uproarious laughter here]. Whatever it is, it hurts all the time and especially when lifting, pouring, carrying, grasping, writing - you know, doing pretty much anything I normally do. You should see me trying to pull up a pair of pantyhose. Good thing I don't wear pantyhose very often. Good times.
So you can imagine how exasperating it is when Girlchild decides, for the eleventy-thousandth time in a day, to turn into Wet Bag of Sand because she does not want to put on her snowpants. It has always amazed me how a small child's weight can increase exponentially when said child decides to rebel.
Maybe maybe maybe things will improve marginally when the teeth come in and the cold goes away. And maybe maybe maybe pigs might fly up my butt. I'll let you know how things turn out.