The Small(er) One started walking properly this week. She's been 'walking' for a while, which meant clinging to my finger and dictating that I support her efforts from here to there for at least 99% of her waking day. Yeah, that was fun, especially when a polite request from me for a toilet break was invariably met with bellows of rage, promptly followed by a chubby little body writhing on the floor in anguished abandon.
But now The Small(er)One has discovered that it's much more fun to do this thang on an independent basis - basically, that she can get up to all kinds of enjoyable destruction when my back is turned. So far this has involved reassigning the contents of the kitchen cupboards to the washing machine. I'm not complaining as it keeps her quiet for hours...although I wasn't too happy when I missed a pack of instant oatmeal before putting the laundry on to boil wash.
Firstborn is finding it all kind of hard to deal with. Imagine, for the past three years she has been the head of the household, dictating which toys The Small(er) One gets to play with, able to tease the little one and run away when the going got tough. But now the tables have well and truly turned. The Small(er)One is out for revenge - and she has advanced skills in the use of the tantrum tactic. If Firstborn dares to withhold anything she wants, she screams until Firstborn(dependent upon her emotional resilience on that particular day) either bursts into tears or runs away. Whatever the reaction, The Small(er) One emerges triumpant, clasping her prize in her podgy hand and cackling with the sweet, sweet joy of yet another victory.
Our household is in turmoil.