"Two. Terrible. Tantrum"

As Hunter has made great strides into the underbelly of the terrible twos, he has also discovered the power to publically humiliate his parents route screaming. As his tantrums never work at home, he can kick and scream until the takeover of interplanetary aliens, we never cave in. The public forum, on the other hand, was it’s own circus act. He has been known to throw objects across the room, if his requests aren’t met like ice cream for breakfast. After throwing, he would follow with hitting and his new phrase, “but I want it,” or “but I don’t want it” which ever was appropriate at the time. I’m unimpressed of his familiarity with all the letters of the alphabet, but I find it diabolical that he’s able to play the public factor to perfection.

As our bank reflects the current financial climate, babysitters are allocated for special occasions like anniversaries or birthdays. As for friends and family, that it didn't apply for last minute events unless his godmother pulled her last minute hook and ladder play. This only leaves us with the option of a) stay home like normal parents or b) double dog dare to bring Hunter.



We attended an Augtoberfest that expected a hundred plus guests. As Shane and I share a brain cell, we took Hunter with us provided the circumstances that he was functioning on the idea of sleep. At this point, we were mocking the gods. The beer festival was on with German music, steins, lederhosens, sausages, and kraut. Shane did his best to be a great dad and a supportive husband, but the keg lured it’s sexy tap far and away from his family. Hunter was Hiroshima just waiting to explode. I cradled Stevie against my chest in the bjorn as I tried to keep an eye on the H-bomb. I look over and Hunter's sucking on an electric blue lollipop! No sooner than I could pluck that from his grasp, the sugar touched down in his blood stream and the screaming ensued. Through the crowd of german wear and sour cabbage, he plopped himself in the middle of the party and self-orchestrated his kick and scream symphony. Shane, oblivious to his son’s screeching, drank from the traditional German drinking boot as the party cheered him on. It had gone awry and the slippery slope was a steep one.



Flashback to our pre-family days, Shane and I prefaced that the kids wouldn’t impose on our lifestyle, but the shrill from Hunter's tiny two year old lungs, I discovered that we were naïve in our assessment. Hunter wasn’t a helpless dolllike infant anymore. He had opinions. He had choices. He had a scream that could deafen dogs at a thirty mile radius. Finally, he wasn’t at home. Right then and there, I could just bury my head in a paper bag of sharp shattered glass. As he kicked and wailed and dozens upon dozens of eyes looked on, I was officially mortified. Shane was useless as the alcohol had swooped him away from the responsible role. I was on my own. Shit. Why I thought this was a good idea was far from my perception. I didn’t even drink beer! I loath the foaming mess. Five hours and thirty Hunter tantrums later, I threw in the towel.

Before I could sneak out, Shane swayed and slurred something about going home as well. I was responsbile for three kids. I knew as soon as I stepped on the gas pedal, that much needed sleep would fall on my once little sweet Hunter. In the meantime, I mistakenly gave a drunk person a ride home only to find that she removed Stevie from the car seat on a busy Guerrero Street on a hectic Saturday night, because she was incessantly crying. As I would’ve loved to violently boot her into fast oncoming traffic for being a complete and affable idiot, I knew this was just another test of patience before I cashed in the day.



Shane's boisterous snore rose up from the couch downstairs. Hunter sweet snore from his bed. A sleeping Stevie cuddled in my arms. I decompressed the mild events of the day in my bed like a zombie in my cotton pajamas with a nice mug of chamomile, and a movie. Hunter’s tantrums seem distant in the silence. He was finally home. Asleep.

This is Shellie trying to wrap her head around everything responsible back to you Bob at the studio!