Oh baby, baby

Alas. My son is finally a two year old. I mean a two year old. I thought that he was the exception to the other two year olds on this planet that create chaos for all the other living things around them. Nope. He is a bonafide chaos machine, well versed in his ability to cause damage and confusion.
It was only two nights ago that I sang my sweet baby to sleep in his red rocking chair. Now, 2 days later, I am sleep deprived and frazzled to the point that I can hardly see straight. I swear I have turned wrinkly and old since last night. My son is subjecting me to a strange form of pain that feels like Chinese water torture must. He refuses to sleep. I literally kept him moving all day long so that by bedtime, he would not get out of bed 15 times, hysterically asking me to "sing sunshine away again."
I remember hearing my neighbor's child screaming at night a few years ago and I was sure that he was being abused. No child that little screams like that unless someone is hurting them. Being very sensitive to children being in a safe environment, I considered what I should do. They moved out while I was still thinking about it. I know that now, I am the one under scrutiny. I am the one that my neighbors watch really closely trying to tell if we act or look like people who hurt children. They might even think about telling me that they hear my baby screaming at night and they wonder what is going on.
In the throws of the horror, I had a minute to consider which type of criminal I might look like if the police were to come to my house right then at that particular moment. Having not showered since we went to the pool, my hair frizzy and dry, my workout clothes looking disheveled, having no makeup on at all, I realized I would be the criminal that you look at and imagine living in a dumpy one bedroom apartment where I harbor sexual deviants. But then if I were to be showered and well dressed, my makeup fully done for my mug shot, you'd probably associate me with the Ramsey family. You'd think I had enough money to get away with anything. Either way I'd be screwed.
SO, my child is a monster. When I woke up the second day of him not sleeping any more than six hours, (which means I got 4), I let him run around the house for 15 minutes before I could actually open my eyes. In that 15 minutes, he had colored almost every wall in our entryway and living room with hot pink marker which he claims as his favorite color. He had taken the broom out of the closet and left it strewn on the kitchen floor with an empty shopping bag next to it. He had taken his breakfast and hastily put half of it in his mouth and half on the floor. As I sat scrubbing the wall with the dish sponge instead of drinking coffee, he cheerfully sat next to me and told me how he drew on the wall. Over and over again. Repitition. Another joy of parenting.
Life is all about clues. My clue of the day, the piece of life that I apparently need more information on, is unconditional love. That is what parenting is trying to teach me. I'm sure of it. There is nothing quite like the test I get when standing outside his door, waiting to hear the thump of him half climbing/half falling out of his bed, going in without looking at him and laying his tense screaming body back in bed, closing the door, waiting for the thud, going in... You get it. Repitition. Until he is too tired to clib/fall out of his crib and he whimpers himself to sleep only to be up in another 45 minutes. I begin to repeat to myself that he is just a baby and I love him. It will end. It will. It will. And I count the minutes until his dad is home and can take him away. Or distract him long enough for me to leave.
The wincing as if I am being completely damaged has passed and I am exhausted. I just want him to sleep. I want the sheer terror of it all to pass. I want myself, my life, my hope back. I want some sleep too. A lot of it.