“Kids are so great. I don’t know why you don’t want to have more. C'mon, she needs a sibling,” say lots of obnoxious people.
Are you fucking kidding me?! This expensive pet of ours is driving me to drink in the afternoons.***
The Biscuit won’t eat. She throws things (a trick she picked up in preschool) and says “NO!” constantly. We’re living with a 2-foot-tall bi-polar tyrant who, as the professionals say, is “struggling to try out her new independence.” Some days I want to leave and not come back until she’s 5. I also miss our old life. You know, the one without the screaming and the boogers and the voluntary starvation.
An amazing nurse I’ve connected with on Twitter assures me the not-eating thing will resolve itself. “It’s shocking that a toddler can subsist on a handful of cheerios, a banana and 2 bites of chicken, but it seems they can.” Meanwhile, Parker refusing to eat is making me not eat so we’re both cranky. Wheee!
This baby melted into a wailing puddle the other day because I put a coat on her. Not a coat filled with razor blades, mind you. A regular, warm coat because we had to go outside and it’s winter in Boston. I’m obviously a terrible mother.
This blog reassures me that we’re not alone with our crazy, drunk midget.
Overall, she’s a great kid and I know this frustratingly difficult time is just a phase. But it stings something awful to know that she’s not like this at school or with the babysitter or with Grandma. No, she saves her most powerful tantrums for Andy and me. I am so grateful I have a husband with seemingly endless stores of patience and understanding.
I’m being driven mad by someone who can’t pronounce the letter L yet. How messed up is that?
*** before you call child services, I’m not really getting drunk everyday. And I don’t think of our daughter as a pet. See hyperbole.