There’s a reason the twos are referred to as terrible. And it’s because they have to be called that in the name of accuracy. I know some people say two is not some evil threshold that, once crossed, leads to a place of bizarre brat behavior and three-alarm fits. But they have either never met a two year-old, are in massive denial, or both. That first even number birthday is D-Day (as in drama) for the battles to come. No piece of clothing they have to wear, should wear, or you want them to wear will be donned without and until a meltdown of cataclysmic proportions. Sharing is like being burned with acid. Bed, bath, and beyond are contact sports. What they ate yesterday with relish and abandon will prompt a screamfest today if it is even suggested, or, god forbid, placed in front of them on a plate that was their favorite at breakfast but is now a loathed albatross from which they must escape. And so on.
Virtually every moment of every thousand-hour day. It makes sense--they are big enough and aware enough to have preferences but too small to get what they want most of the time--but it sure is tough for the big people who have to ride the conniption roller coaster on a regular basis. In Edna Mitchell Preston’s The Temper Tantrum Book, all the baby animals in the jungle are expressing their frustration. And every living thing in a ten-mile radius knows about it.
http://www.amazon.com/Temper-Tantrum-Book-Mitchell-Preston/dp/0140501819
http://www.alibris.com/search/books/author/Preston,%20Edna%20Mitchell
