The Screamin' Demon

Never mind the Commonwealth Games, I’d say to the BBC that there is something much more worthy of the licence fee unfolding in our house – the curly-haired lunatic’s terrible twos.
The youngest boy, who turned two just last month, has taken to screaming like it is an actual Olympic sport and he is gearing up to represent Ireland in London 2012.
No longer does he ask for stuff, he points and screams until said item is placed in his hand. If something troubles him he screams until that thing is put to rights. We are sometimes fearful of making eye contact in case we might inadvertently set of a catastrophic chain of events concluding with an hour of noisy and pointless screaming.
And this is no ordinary screeching. We’re talking ear-drum splitting, window cracking wailing which makes birds flee from nearby trees in fear for their lives. The boy’s noisy protestations can only be compared with what I imagine Satan’s motorbike might sound like with a troubled ignition throttle – rattling up from a whimper to a level seven hellish wail in five point six seconds.
He throws the odd strop at home, but in true kiddie tantrum fashion he saves the biggest hissy fits for when we are in public places.
But what the kid forgets is that we have been down this road twice before. We have quite literally been there, done that and are the proud owners of some fabulously colourful fitted ‘I survived the Terrible Twos’ t-shirts.
Just last week Finn had his two-year check-up with the health visitor and had I informed her that the boy was a placid soul, we had as yet to witness any tantrums and that perhaps we would escape the dreaded terrible twoness this time around. I wondered why she laughed so heartily.
Two days later the boy took great exception to my refusal to feed him chocolate cake for lunch and staged what I’m not afraid to admit was a very innovative protest in the cereal isle of Sainsbury’s.
He kicked off with a low and whiney cry, followed by a bit of arm swinging which could be compared to the actions of a drunken bare-knuckled boxer. The child, who unfortunately bears a frightening resemblance to the late Ollie Reed, then did this foot stomping dance – one foot stationery while the other stomps in a circle – and turned the volume up considerably. He concluded his performance with a big deep breath and an ear-piercing, eye-watering scream on the exhale which lasted an amazing one minute 20 seconds. I’m sure the Olympic swimming team would head hunt him if they knew. Not many people can hold their breath for that long never mind scream for the entire duration. Surely the Guinness book of records should be informed.
After consulting my mind’s vast catalogue of ‘tantrum dealing tips’ I practised my well-honed methods – pointing, laughing, more pointing and gradual withdrawal of attention.
We are, after all, the adults in this situation and therefore are not scared by loud screaming and stomping of feet. We are not even perturbed by the way he balls his fists, tenses every muscle in his body and turns his face beetroot red like he is about to physically combust.
We have seen it all. The oldest boy’s terrible twos were peppered with varying degrees of head banging. The boy would hit his head off the side of his cot/doors/floors etc while the husband and I stood back pondering why he was taking this particular line of action. Do kids not know that the pages of history are littered with these types of protest? You know the ones where they hurt themselves instead of inflicting pain upon others to make their point and that they rarely work.
The second boy used high-pitched screaming as a medium of expressing his annoyance at those troublesome twos. But this was no ordinary screaming either. We often compared him to the scary risen-from-the-dead bad guy in ‘The Mummy’ films. But whereas the Egyptian bad guy was aided by fancy computer graphics to look like he had unhinged his jawbone, our boy just opened his mouth impossibly wide and screamed au natural. The husband and I spent this particular phase laughing and pointing at him also.
So we have embarked on our youngest boy’s journey through the terrible twos and we don’t yet know what to expect. But we are secretly hoping that the London Olympics might open a ‘screamin’ demon’ category, for there will be no prouder parents than the husband and I when the child brings that gold home to Ireland.