Don't Retract Pack

52 Ways Life is Tough at Two

Life is tough. Some days more than others. And even more so when you are just two years old (or three, or four...). Life doesn't make sense when your entire universe is made up of what you can see and hear and feel right. at. this. exact. moment. The bigger picture hasn't formed yet, and egocentrism is a normal, healthy, temporary stage of development. Mental pain (via confusion, anxiety, disorientation, fear, loneliness, boredom, sleepiness, malnourishment, insecurity, etc.) equals physical pain at this age - and it is very real.

The next time your two year old (or three year old, or four year old...) has a meltdown because he can't find that tiny little rock he picked up at the park yesterday, remember: in his world this IS catastrophic. This is gravely serious, and rather than dismissal or distain for these tears and fears, he needs your loving arms wrapped around him - and maybe an adventure back to the park to find another special rock.

Excellent related reading on this subject includes Tackling Distress Tantrums with Brain Research, Why Spanking is Never Okay, the books: The Science of Parenting, Why Love Matters, and oodles of others gathered in the gentle discipline book collection.

52 53 Ways Life is Tough at Two
(By Danelle Frisbie with the help of her son and his friends,
and a few personal experiences from many, many years ago, and the tragedies they all overcame...)

I'm tired. 

The sun is too bright. 

There's yucky on my cup.

The straw has a hole.

My coloring paper is wrinkled. 

My brother looked at me. 

My rock is missing.

My stick broke. 

I can't play in the oven.

I can't fit in the dishwasher.

Netflix isn't loading Thomas.

I don't know the password on Daddy's iPad.

I'm hungry.

I put too much food in my mouth.

Someone touched my arm.

I'm too little.

I'm too big.

I can do it ALL BY MYSELF.

I need help.

That smells funny.

There's green in my food.

Mom is in the bathroom.

I don't know how to write my name.

I spilled.

The vacuum's too loud.

I can't carry all my toys at once.

I ripped my sticker. 

I want the blue marker.

No - the OTHER blue marker. 

This book is too heavy.

There's a hair on my shirt.

My vitamin is yucky.

I don't like lettuce.
(never tried it)

I want to eat dog food.

The cat's in my way.

I don't care if I wore this shirt 39 days in a row.

That shirt itches.

The snow is cold.

Why can't I touch my lit birthday candles?

I don't want to hug Grandma.

My shoe should go on either foot.

My socks got wet when I jumped in the puddle.

The back of my head tickles.

My balloon popped.

But ice cream is healthy food!

My puzzle piece Won't. Go. In!
(upside down)

My imagination shut down.

Can we go now?

I want to hold your keys. 

I bumped my toe.

And my other toe.

But I can't say 'Thank You!'

My brother looked at me again.


Another fun read: 46 Reasons My Three Year Old Might Be Freaking Out by Jason Good

The Bereaved Mother

Do not judge the bereaved mother. 

She comes in many forms. 

She is breathing, but she is dying. 

She may look young, but inside she has become ancient. 

She smiles, but her heart sobs. 

She walks,
she talks,
she cooks,
she cleans,
she works. 

She IS, but she IS NOT, all at once.

She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity. 

 Author Unknown