It's been kind of a rough week for Atticus and for us parents. Perhaps this is what they mean by terrible twos. Crying fits every night. Often many. It's not all bad. We chased each other around the house this evening on his various vehicles and read books, but boy.

Tonight the crying began because while he was sitting on the potty not long before bed, he took his bicycle helmet off (which he'd been wearing in order to have a helmet like the little girl in his book about going to the moon) and hit me a couple of times in the leg. It was sort of play-hitting, but a little rougher than I'd like, and he was definately challenging me. So I took the helmet away, and he wailed and wailed. The whole time I looked up out the bathroom window, calmly ignoring him. Eventually I looked back at him, and he didn't even notice because he was crying with his eyes squeezed shut. After a little while longer, I said, calmly, "Are you done?" To my surprise, he quieted, opened his eyes, and said, "yes." Then he smiled and said, "What's that?" as he pointed flirtatiously at his helmet.

After I brushed his teeth and put him in his pajamas, during which he wailed once again, he remarked on his tears. I explained what they were. Then he asked me to cry. I laughed several times before I managed to hunker down and think of the saddest thing possible--losing Atticus. As I cried, he studied me so closely like a little scientist or artist. Then we hugged.