My kids are being so naughty lately. They don’t listen, they don’t do what I tell them, and every five minutes someone comes running in to tattle that they got hit or pinched or had their hair pulled. I tell them if they can’t play nice together, they should play separately. And then they start whining and crying about THAT.
I am at a loss. My daughter is three, which was a very tough age with my son. It’s been a shock to me, because for so long he was the difficult one and she was the little princess who sat in my lap and told me sweet baby secrets. Now she’s all like, “Check me OUT, Naughty Girl is HERE and there’s nothing YOU can do about it!” and then she rolls cigarettes up in the sleeve of her white t-shirt, throws her leg over a tiny Harley, and smirks at me from behind mirrored sunglasses.
I am fed up. Tonight I shrieked at them to knock it off so loudly I thought my larnyx might explode. Maybe that’s the problem – my voice is pitched to that hysterical level only dogs can hear. I told them if they acted like this tomorrow, they would spend the entire day alone in their rooms. They are each sitting in a corner right now, and I am vomiting this up all over the internets because it’s better than listening to that awful screechy fishwife that passes herself off as a mommy around here. I don’t like her. I wish she would go away and someone who loves noise and dirt and glitter crafts would come instead.
At one o’clock in the morning, Little woke up crying about monsters in her room. I gathered her Elmo doll and her blankie, and brought her into bed with me. She pressed her tiny warm body against mine; her small arms stole around my neck and she whispered over and over, “I just love you, mommy.” I squeezed her even tighter and remembered, “oh. . . I know you. . . .I love you more than anything on earth and we will be best friends forever.” And my tears plastered her silky hair to my cheek.