Sam, Melodrama, and Scary Monsters

Sam has taken to waving a foam sword around a lot while shouting "Ha!" Imagine combining fencing with karate and you'll get the right idea.

His older brothers are generally happy to spar with him, which is sweet. (As far as boys trying to decapitate each other goes.)

Yesterday, Sam was playing by himself in the living room. Vague sounds of bouncing on the couch and overturning the piano bench registered distantly in my distracted mind.

Then, abruptly, he rushed into the office. "Mommy! Da scawey monstow got me!" he announced.

"The scary monster got you?" I asked, concerned.

He nodded solemnly.

"But you look fine," I noted. "So it can't have been that bad."

Realizing his error, Sam immediately dropped to the floor, grunted, flopped about like a dying fish for ten seconds, and then lay still, clutching his chest with a final, dramatic groan.

I concede that he likes his daddy better, but he is so totally MY kid.

I also realized that I think of him as a three-year-old, even though his birthday is three months away. He's making up stories, playing with people, not in parallel, begging to go to friends' houses, and speaking in complete sentences. See? He's acting like a three-year-old. He is, he IS. Granted, he threw a huge tantrum today when I put him down for a nap, but I am dismissing that data point as irrelevant. The terrible twos are over. La la la... (I am singing both in joyous triumph and to drown out your ignorant protests that I am deluding myself.) Zippity doo dah...

You deal with the scary monster of the Terrible Twos your way, and I'll handle it my way. Denial is a perfectly legitimate coping strategy.

Three. Three is generally a good year. Granted, it might involve monsters under Sam's bed, but we'll whomp 'em with foam weapons as necessary.


Here is some similar footage from Christmas morning:

I especially liked it when Eric offered to be beaten upon, and Sammy said "No, Eric's not a target."