My mother did indeed tell me there would be days like today. Even before I told her I was thinking about having kids of my own. In fact, I think she wished days like this on me to make up for my inflicting them upon her when I was a child.
Today was one of those days. Complete with three poopy diapers and the requisite screaming, kicking, clawing, jumping from the changing table fits that always accompany them. We started the day by his putting strawberries under his butt and smashing them into both his pajamas and the floor before I noticed. To get out we went to Starbucks where the only thing that made him quiet was taking my wallet apart and throwing all of my credit/debit/gift cards on the floor. A little girl about his age waved at him and he responded by screaming and reaching toward her as if to snatch off her nose.
Once we were home again he managed to empty all of his toy bins and strew the contents about our apartment several times. He also dumped a bowl of peas onto the floor and squished them in good with his feet. I needed to go to the grocery store and thought maybe a walk would do him good and the ensuing fit of melting into the floor to avoid my putting his pants/socks/shoes/coat on was enough to make me pull all of my hair out. At the store he chewed the cover off the bar on his stroller and screamed bloody murder as I took it away from him. I suspect teething is behind this heinous attitude of his, but it really doesn’t make it easier to bear.
At least he finally took a nap (laying on me, on the couch, of course). I know that days like this will probably only get worse as he becomes more self-aware, independent, and willfull. For now, I think I’m going to tell the husband we need to go out for dinner…somewhere with beer.