Today I told Stella that I would pay her a dollar if she would just eat her sandwich normally (as opposed to opening it up and scraping the peanut butter and jelly off with her fingers). And it almost worked, too. We had a whole discussion about what she could do with her dollar (put it in her piggy bank, natch), then she decided that it just wasn’t worth it. She scraped off the last bits ‘o nutty goodness, and left the bread laying there dead and lifeless, like always. I can only imagine that – in a future attempt to salvage our bread supply – I will simply hand her two spoons, one with peanut butter and one with jelly and tell her to lick, lick away.

We have high hopes of great parental breakthroughs for the first quarter of this year. Peanut butter sandwich issues aside, there is the whole potty training thing and bigger yet, the whole getting rid of the water bottle thing. In case we were had any inclinations of apathetically letting these things limp along, Stella’s pediatrician subtly pointed out that these are issues we should have well underway by the time the new baby arrives – as there will be regression. And regression from a point where no progress has been made could get ugly. Very ugly. (She also very subtly pointed out that – at 36″ tall and 34 lbs – Stella is roughly the size of the average 3-year-old. I think this was her way of letting us know that we had better watch our backs.)

One thing we hadn’t planned on was that other, unrelated parenting issues began to arise before the new year even began. From the first day that Steve began his holiday break, our entire household went into a tailspin of routinelessness and chaos that ultimately culminated in both a metaphorical and actual perfect storm. Not only were we pummeled with a series of storms that crippled our entire county’s infrastructure, but this was coupled with the fact that we had just endured two weeks with the child who wouldn’t be told no. So here we sat – the three of us, with no electricity, no patience, no Dora, no way to escape from the maniacal ravings of a 2-year-old on the edge. We had, what I would surmise, was one of the hardest days in our short lives as parents. I can’t even put it into words. Her rage. Her fury. Her ability to scream, “DON’T WANT TO [insert action here]” at the top of her lungs. Repeatedly. One of the more ingeneous ones being “Don’t want to weep” – meaning, sleep – but she can’t quite pronounce it right. I just wanted to laugh…when I didn’t want to curl into a fetal position and cry.

It was somewhere between that one hour-and-a-half of screaming crying and that other hour-and-a-half of screaming and crying that we realized we had no other choice – we had to turn our parental tool bag upside down and shake it voilently until something fell out that we could use. And there it was, right on top of the bribery manual and next to the gag and blindfold: the shiny, still-in-shrinkwrap Time Out. Unfortunately, as with many of the tools, the instructions were minimal, and we were not prepared for how ineffective it would really prove to be those first few uses. It is hard to instill dread into an irrational 2-year-old with the threat of a time-out when they have no idea what that means. I guess it just never occurred to us that punishment only works when the person being punished actually understands what punishment means. Honestly, it was like we could have said “Okay, that’s enough, you need to stand on your left foot for the next two minutes until you are ready to calm down” and she would have had no different reaction – which, by the way, was just more screaming and crying.

Typical of the novices that we are, we are still trying to lay the groundwork that will actually teach her the concept of what consequences are, and how they have meaning to her life. Right now, she just sits on the foot of our bed, screaming for the predicated time limit (1 minute for each year old), and is then retrieved, often still crying in a fit of rage. The whole idea of “I need to stop doing what I am doing or I will have to do this again” has just not really sunk in. At least she stays put. It hasn’t really seemed to occur to her to get up and bolt. For now.

So here we were, ready to take on the challenge of potty training only to find that our optimism has been dashed due to Stella’s newly adapted rabid temper. We were SO CLOSE! And as for the whole water bottle issue, well, just the thought of what will happen should we dare even suggest such blasphemy sends shivers up my spine.

Funny thing though, I caught a glimpse of some of the other tools that are buried deep within that bag of ours and I guess that this is just the beginning of a long road that will eventually call for the use of items called Car Key Revoker and the Restrictionater. I hope they come with better manuals.