I love my daughter to death.  She is the light of my life, and at times, she can make me laugh like I did in high school.  But I've come to realize and accept that dealing with a two-year-old is like negotiating with a terrorist.

She has total control. In fact, she's mastered the art of ambivalence.   At times, I am her whole world.  No one can substitute. And then, in an instant, I am her sworn enemy.

For instance, we are at the Disney Store buying birthday gifts for classmates.  She wants the Mickey Mouse doll.  I say no.  No.  NO.  Sigh... noooo.  Then we negotiate.  And finally I give in.  I know. I know.  You laugh.  You cringe.  You shout at me as you're reading this.  But what is one to do when one is standing in the middle of a crowded store with a two-year-old demanding to be heard and a one-year-old taking everything off the shelves in gleeful abandon? (Yes, my lack of timing will be addressed at another time)

So, I say yes.  She may have the doll.  The tantrum ends.  People in the store stop staring.  I think, "Okay, not my wisest move, but it'll get me to the parking lot, where I hope no one will recognize me as I alternate between cursing my husband and sobbing."   I take a deep breath.  I will make it out of this store with some dignity.  I will.  I am the mother, after all.  I can handle this situation.  That's exactly when my two-year-old spots a Pooh doll in the corner, drops Mickey Mouse, steps on his face, and storms towards Pooh.  He, she shouts and an incredible decibel, is what she must have.  Now.

I am nothing. I am weak.  I am a mere mortal compared to this... this being who can literally cause my right eye to twitch, uncontrollably for hours, until bedtime when alcohol is consumed and the mantra, I am the worst mother in the world plays over and over and over and over in my mind.

Now I know you're thinking there are books for this woman.  Read them... all. I've tried all the recommended techniques. I've tried ignoring the outbursts.  But come on.  When you're in the middle of Trader Joe's and your kid is the one in the frozen food section screaming for something she wanted in the fruit aisle ten minutes ago, that tactic is for the deaf or merely the insane.
 
I've tried the "no chances you're out" scenario, but discovered that at the end of the day it only seemed to bum me out that war had been declared between us.  She seemed to actually enjoy being whisked out of stores.  And the naughty step?  PLEASE.  I implemented the "naughty step," "time-out," and/or the "thinking chair," whatever you want to call it, the final straw. 

So, after my daughter hit her sister for the twentieth time in three minutes, I boldly stood up and declared, "That was enough."  Time for a time-out.  She must sit against the wall and wait until I get her.  No toys.  No dolls.  No books.  Just her.  Time to think about what she's done.  She looked at me.  Her eyes darkened.  Had I won?  Had I made progress?  Inwardly, I rejoiced.  I can do this parenthood thing.  Then her face changed.  She actually grinned and gleefully ran to the predetermined spot and proceeded to close her eyes and pretend to take a nap.

I've lost.  There no winning, merely survival.  She holds the entire family hostage.  I do pray at night that soon she will eventually find another target to terrorize.