I DO IT MYSELF!

(ital) I do it myself. (unital)

When you first hear those words from your angelic offspring, you stop in your tracks and smile in wonderment.

A child prodigy ... a high achiever with unlimited potential.

How many other 2 year olds can do that, you beam.

And then you discover the full implication of those four simple words. Words with enough whoomp to make a battle-worn parent run for cover.

(ital) I do it myself. (unital)

Well, they think they can, but they usually can't -- at least not within a parental timeframe. Socks on in 30 minutes gets old fast. And if you're in a hurry -- the gears shift from painstaking to paralysis.

And just when you finally get her dressed after an hour of struggle, the phone rings. When you turn around seconds later, you find she has removed every stitch, including the diaper, and is frolicking about the carpeted house to some annoying Barney tune.

(Ital) We take turns, (unital) she shouts off key.

(ital) We ruin carpets, (unital) is all you can think.

The prodigy image long dispelled, you now worry about special education.

The finger pointing begins. Where did all this stubbornness come from?

"Remember the time," your husband accuses. "Well, don't forget when...," you lob back.

As you race out the door with offspring firmly tucked under an arm -- late for work again -- the answer suddenly becomes crystal clear.

Babies were switched at the hospital.

With a sigh of relief, the blame is laid elsewhere and the possibility of a lucrative settlement or even a tawdry miniseries keeps you smiling all the way to day care.

Well she's two now

Friends simply console me with mock understanding. And then they say those words -- which rank right up there with (ital) I do it myself (unital) as the words you least want to hear -- (ital) Well, she's two now. (unital)

It sounds like a terminal illness.

What happened to my sweetheart who sat in mom's lap, snuggled up close, and gave me boundless hugs and kisses?

One day, when I went in to wake my sleeping angel with a kiss, she took one look at me and rolled back over.

"Run away mom," she said. "I'm going back to sleep now."

She's too busy for clothes or food -- there are more walls to color with the only two non-washable crayolas in the house. I keep throwing them away and they keep turning up. The same two. How does that work?

She's no longer a baby. She's a little girl ... at least some days. Other times, a kind of beastie takes over.

Our parent educator tells us it's a power struggle.

Then how come I lose? I'm bigger. I'm older. It's not fair. I want to win sometimes -- especially in the middle of a crowded department store. I just try to melt into the crowd -- clucking with the rest. "Who's child is (ital) that (unital) and where have her parents gone?"

Clothes? Forget it.

I find myself making grand promises for a pair of socks. Extra treats. Big allowance. Car at 15. Her lack of interest humbles me to the next line of defense -- threats.

After a while I pull out the killer -- no Barney tapes until she gets dressed.

A three-hour ordeal followed in which everyone was reduced to tears.

But even her beloved Barney lasted one day. ONE DAY.

Even he wasn't worth an undershirt.

I once snickered when I heard of a parent who sent her child to school in pajamas. What kind of parent would do that? Of course, that's before I had a 2 year old and came to know the truth -- which by the way doesn't set you free.

One day I found myself begging her to wear anything -- even her ballerina Halloween costume, although there was two feet of snow outside. Don't judge me too hard. It didn't work.

As a parent, I've learned to never say never. When it comes to your children, they'll disprove you in a crowded restaurant filled with the people you most want to impress. When you ask your parents what to do, they're no help. "You were never that way," they assure. I decided long-term memory is suspect. I stopped watching the Civil War chronicles.

I liken a 2 year old to a stick of TNT. It could blow at any second -- even if you aren't standing nearby. And the fuse is very short.

One morning, she screamed for 15 minutes. I couldn't figure out why. She talks pretty well for her age but on this particular morning, she was only sharing her frustration in the form of a temper tantrum. I finally deduced I had put her juice in a pink cup when she wanted the purple one.

Well, call the child abuse hotline immediately.

Later, she had one of her best afternoons at day care. Go figure. Her teacher even circled the word (Ital) cooperative (unital) on her daily report.

Her father and I glowed. She was (ital) cooperative (unital), we gushed to all our friends. They marveled at the feat. Most are parents themselves and well understand the odds. Some people win the lottery. My child was cooperative for about four hours. The euphoria was short lived. We had given her the purple cup at dinner. She wanted pink.

Potty training paranoia

Next to the four dreaded words, one of the worst sounds a parent can hear is that rip of tape from plastic. A diaper has been unceremoniously removed and your naked child is loose on the carpet. The exorbitant cost of each precious piece of high tech super absorbency is lost on her.

You grasp at straws -- potty training can't be far behind.

Well, I can dream can't I?

This stage means you will spend a lot of time in the bathroom. You don't want to discourage. The thought of no more diapers stops you cold. The money. The possibilities.

But after spending endless hours a day in the bathroom, you begin to realize she's toying with you again. (Why can't I win that power struggle at least once a week?)

It's a pathetic scene: I'm crouching near darling daughter, my legs have gone numb hours ago with some silly expression of hope still pasted on my face. Meanwhile, the dear child has created toilet paper ticker tape. I'm getting ready to rain on her parade.

Hope springs eternal

But for parents, hope springs eternal. One of my best friends has lived through it -- her daughter is nearly 4, going on 14. She used to tell me of her trials. I listened with mild interest. After all, my little angel wouldn't become (ital) that. (unital) Friends assured her that the third birthday brings an overnight transformation. The birthday came ... and went. Just when she was about to come to the realization they had lied to her to make her feel better (parents do it all the time), relief arrived at 3 1/2. The body snatchers brought back her real daughter and took "IT."

Three and a half. That's the magic time, she assures me. Not much consolation to a mom whose little darling turned two in February.

The terrible twos -- you bet. But I have it on good authority that some kids snap out of it at 30 months. You hang onto the hope, try to catch your naked child and save for new carpeting. Maybe that's where all that diaper money goes. You brace yourself for another day and move up the alarm. Tomorrow, you pledge, I've got to get to work on time.

Darling daughter will make it to three, but I'm not so sure about mom.

(ital) I do it myself. (unital)

Some days, it doesn't pay to get up.

Joni Adams is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian and mother of 2-year-old Rebecca.