Mad.

"I'm mad! I'm maaaaaaad!!!!" you screamed from behind the play room door where you had put yourself in a time out. Only minutes before we had been playing, laughing, and having fun. Then you got in trouble for God only knows what (who can keep track, really) and your response to my telling you no was to chuck a Hot Wheel at my face. I sent you upstairs while I wiped the blood from my lip and tried to think rationally. Is it terrible that if you were anyone other than my sweet boy I probably would have thrown that Hot Wheel right back at you?

It is so hard knowing the right thing to do. To know what an "appropriate" response to any given situation may be. To react in a way that is authoritative without being mean; to discipline in a way that teaches, rather than serves only to punish. There is no chapter in "The Happiest Toddler on the Block" about handling small metal objects being thrown at your face at point blank range. I've looked. I have no idea what I'm doing, all I know is that it always feels like the wrong thing.

"Sorry"s were said and tears were shed on both parts and all the while Baby Beck was downstairs screaming his head off (add that to the equation and the difficulty of the situation increases exponentially) and, unbeknownst to me, making his way up the first five stairs. Must put up baby gate asap. Ten minutes have now passed and in that time you have screamed and cried again, offered a toy to your brother with a smile, closed yourself behind the door and growled a bit, giggled like a crazy person, and hugged me and told me you love me.

I suppose that being three gives you license to just experience emotions how they come. I, on the other hand, am still having to hold back my anger at the now swelling lip (though the spontaneous "I love you" helped immensely). Why can't I have a time out? I'm the one who needs it.