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Dylan spent at least half the day throwing one tantrum after another, the earsplitting tearless kind that are driven by pure anger and frustration at not being allowed to engage in a variety of undesirable behaviors such as, for instance, attempting to shatter the television screen with a metal spatula.

I joke a lot about how he eats dog hair when he’s mad, but he really and truly does this and it’s seriously demented. I mean, I have never heard of a kid lashing out in that way. I even googled it, and sadly, the only result was my own website.

That’s not his only retaliatory response towards hearing the word NO, of course. There’s also biting furniture, pulling up his shirt and biting the fabric, walking over to my bookshelf and pulling out books, reaching to pull things off the kitchen counter, throwing toys across the room, pushing buttons on the DVR, and spitting.

But the thing where he sits and plucks fuzz and dirt and pet hair off the carpet and jams it in his mouth? Drives me out of my goddamned mind. Which, of course, is the point, as far as he’s concerned. The entire time, he’s staring directly at us, so it’s perfectly clear to all involved parties just what’s going on here: this isn’t simply an idle taste-test of carpet filth, no sir. This is a RADICAL ACT.

Sometimes it’s kind of funny, you know. The pint-sized fury, the beetled brow, the fact that he’s so deliberate in his revenge. But other times I just feel dragged straight to the end of my rope by the screaming and the chaos and the obnoxiousness of it all. More than once today I lost my patience and shouted at him to STOP IT, goddamn it. Stop the crying, the spitting, the throwing, the fucking dog hair, just STOP IT.

Shouting in rage at the little boy I’d take a bullet for. Yeah, that’s a good feeling.

After today I realize that I’ve got to head off the behavior when it’s getting out of hand, because this thing where I follow him around getting more and more pissed off by the things he’s doing for the express purpose of pissing me off is . . . well, for god’s sake. I’m 35 years old. He’s not even two. Someone’s got to be the grownup, right?

If it were Riley who were acting out, I’d send him to his room in a heartbeat. When I’ve tried this with Dylan, though, he just stands in his crib screaming at the top of his lungs. But it’s true that sometimes it’s more that mom is the one who needs a time out. Next time, he’s going in his crib and I’m going outside for a nice long count of ten. Maybe two hundred.

The moments of scary, angry yelling are the ugliest I’ve ever known. The brief helpless feeling of catharsis, followed swiftly by shame and regret.

I’m so sorry, little guy. Sometimes I really suck at being the grownup.

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