Howling at the moon

There is a stranger living in my house. He arrived without warning and unceremoniously kicked out my lovely baby boy.

This new guy is moody. One minute he is laughing and enjoying life and the next he is angry and overwhelmed. He throws toys around the house, usually in frustration but sometimes in glee. He cries at the word 'no' yet says it himself often. He throws himself on the ground in fury one minute and then the next acts as if he will die if he doesn't get a cuddle that second. And sometimes he is a perfect little angel, smiling and laughing, talking and sharing. He keeps me off-guard.

To wit: his love of markers has become obsessive. A ballpen on a table becomes the Holy Grail to his own Indiana Jones. He must have it at all costs. Height, wobbly chairs, and a glaring mother are all mere obstacles in his quest. Once he has his pen, the walls, floor and cupboards all become victim to his furious scribbling. The removal of said pen can lead to seismic, earth shaking, the cave collapses, the large rolling stone crushes all, and Indiana barely makes it out alive.

I expect that soon he will be howling at the moon and eating small rodents.

The terrible twos have come early to our house.