The baby honeymoon is over.  Now that our daughter is four months old, those sweet, idyllic moments are seemingly gone forever.   The enchantment with our little bundle of joy has officially worn off.

Before you accuse me of being an unatural mother (don’t worry, I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time), let me assure you I’m not talking about my feelings.  Nor my husband’s.  We are still disgustingly ga-ga over the newest member of our family. 

Alas, I’m talking about our four year-old son.  You see, he has finally figured out that his baby sister is here.  To Stay.  FOREVER.  Equally apparent is the fact that he’s less than thrilled with that knowledge.   Or at least, that’s what I’m deducing, based on his recent complete and utter loss of coping skills. 

Not that he ever says anything mean about his sister.  It’s always, “Oh, look how cute baby Finley is”, or “Aw, she’s so silly”.   So, how do I know he’s upset?  Let’s put it this way—-does the word “tantrum” mean anything to you?  Yes, I realize that most toddlers and preschoolers throw tantrums, but my son just wasn’t one of them.  Oh, he’d get in a snit every now and again, but on a truly awful day, twenty seconds was about  his max.  (By the way, do not take this to mean I think my son was a perfect angel in every other regard—that thought is so ludicrous that I need to stop to take a laugh break right now.)   Seriously, my son comes with more than his quota of special and interesting challenges and “idiosyncrasies”, if you will.  It’s just that tantruming didn’t happen to be one of them.  Until now.

I guess it’s one of those special perks of having a second child that you just gloss over in the parenting books, thinking surely it won’t pertain to your well-adjusted child.  Okay, folks, I can hear the cackles from the seasoned parents of multiple kids even through the Internet—knock it off.  Admit it—you were living in the same dreamland of denial when planning your second child as well.  Just because you’ve already lived it doesn’t make it funny when others are suffering.  Or maybe it does.   In fact, I take it back—I can’t wait for the day when I get a good chuckle from somebody else’s misery in this department, so long as my own son isn’t wailing over the fact that he’s suddenly ravenous in the middle of his sister’s bath.  Or sobbing because he didn’t get a hand stamp  at gym class.  (Apparently, if you don’t get a stamp at gym class, the world as we know it might end at any moment.)

In fact, before Finley turned three months old, I could probably count the number of tantrums my son had on one hand.  With fingers to spare.  Now?  Heck, I need two hands, and on a bad day, feet, to make it through one twenty-four hour stretch. 

I know this too shall pass.  I mean, we’ve survived my son’s daycare flasher phase, his pushing-is-fun phase, and his mommy-needs-to-fix-my-covers-at-3:00-in-the-morning phase.  

Not with any dignity, mind you, but hey—dignity is over-rated, especially as it pertains to child-rearing.