Two and a half years ago my extremely pregnant wife locked herself in the upstairs bathroom of our house as a violent attacker tried to break in and beat the ever loving shit out of her. She cowered behind the door - crying and fearful that somehow she wouldn't be successful at keeping the attacker at bay - who seemed especially determined to kick and punch her large, protruding, pregnant belly. Mostly because the attacker knew that was what she was afraid of most.
The attacker - by the way - was my demented daughter. That's what they mean by the naff Terrible Two's thing. This morning my son is probably in his 10th or 11th Timeout. This last one for trying to stamp on the dog. Yesterday he had umpteen more than that. My favorites were when he tried to stab me with a trowel, broke a bottle and tried to shiv his sister with it and also tried to steal the recently-found bones of a dead dog I'd found in the back yard (no really - life here is actually that mental). I also liked it when - after punishing him by taking away his coveted Thomas train set - his sister angrily recoiled to point out that I can't do that because it isn't mine (it's "theirs"). Turns out nothing is mine except my running shoes and the empty box of Chex cereal in the kitchen. "You don't have anything!" she yelled as her brother punched her repeatedly.
Today is going to be annoying.