This little tiny person I call my son is on a mission to destroy my sanity.

Beckham, my sweet baby boy, has been about as destructive as a wrecking ball this week.

He’s two. I know, I know.

I’m in the Terrible Two’s now, and instead of “terrible” they should call them the “torturous” twos or “the year of destruction.”

It’s been a freaking NIGHTMARE lately.

Ya know, I had rough times with Brody—the crying, the whining, the shyness, the spitting up everywhere, problems with his formula—and those giant parenting fails, like the time I locked us out of the house (read that post here) and the time I locked 4-month-old Brody in the car at Walmart (read that post here). Yes, that happened. And I thought that was tough…

Brody is a pretty clean child. When he was just shy of two, he’d put his bottles or cups sitting upright on the table, but not just on the table, he’d neatly sit the cup on the damn coaster on the table.

And if his cup fell over, he went straight over to pick it up.

Beckham is the polar opposite from Brody.

He colors on walls, tables—and the latest—couches.

I have to worry about him picking up small things and putting them in his mouth. He swallowed a marble last week (A FREAKING MARBLE) and we’re waiting to see if he will poo it out.

I didn’t have to worry about any of that with Brody; he’s just a different kid. He didn’t get into things and make a mess all the time. We didn’t “baby proof” our house much with him. We did on some things, but Brody learned quickly or didn’t take interest in the things mommy and daddy didn’t want him to get in.

Maybe it’s because Bex is the second child.

Second children get attention, sometimes more and sometimes less. But I personally feel they don’t get undivided attention, at least not like the first one did.

The first child was new and all the experiences were new for the parents too. So, Brody had our constant attention.

And this time around, I’m so exhausted (physically, mentally, emotionally) because I have two kids and that creates such a different environment for Beckham to grow up in.

Especially one that has his mom not back to her old energy, fully-healthy self again.

Bex is like a Tasmanian devil, or a tornado, or like the Hulk and all he wants to do is smash and break stuff.

He’s an explorer—clearly.

He spilled my powder foundation (makeup guys) all over the floor and my stool in the bathroom when I was in the tub this weekend. Not much I could do about it since I was taking a bath, but luckily my friend Dani was over and helped me with the mess.

He put stamp-ink up to his ear pretending like it was a phone and had red ink all over his face, hands, clothes and my rug.

I finally said “EFF it” and decided to toss the rug, when dropped a baked potato on the floor—with sour cream—on it. I’d just had enough. I couldn’t bear any more accidents with red ink, potatoes, or the 50 million other things he’s dropped on the rug over the past two years. I rolled that rug up and threw it in the garage for Klay to toss out. It was just time for that shit to go.

I literally cannot leave this kid alone for a second.

He’s in the dog bowls.

He’s in the pantry.

He’s pulling things off my shelves.

He’s throwing the couch cushions off the couch.

He’s pouring baby powder all over the floor.

He’s getting things out of the trash.

He’s pouring boxes of puzzle pieces all over the floor for no reason.

He broke one of my dining room chairs.

He’s throwing rolls of toilet paper in the toilet.

He’s throwing food on the floor to the dogs.

He’s constantly in drawers, cabinets, and anything that will open—closets, included.

He puts blankets over his head and walks around until he bumps a chair or a table and says “Ow.”

He’s constantly putting on rain boots and walking around the house, and when he gets tired of those, he goes and puts another pair on, leaving a trail of shoes over the floor.

It’s constantly “Beckham, NO!”

“Bex, no sir!”

“Don’t do that, Bex.”

“No, don’t, don’t, damn it, Beckham.”

“Don’t touch that.”

“Get your finger out of there.”

If he’s quiet, he’s either pooping or doing something he shouldn’t be.

He’s just a mess.

He doesn’t care if he’s dirty, if his hands are sticky, or has stuff all over his face. He just keeps going on with his life.

I have THAT kid.

But he has one of heck of a smile than can light up a room.

He’s funny and loves to make you laugh.

And, yesterday he got his first haircut ever.

Goodbye baby Bex and hello little boy.

I almost started crying when it was all done because he looks so much older.

He’s a mess, but he’s my mess.

And I won’t be able to have another one like him. And that makes me sad or crazy because after writing all of the moments he’s pushed me to my breaking point, but I still adore that little blue-eyed, blonde, and happy little boy.

Traversing through the terrible twos,