Picture a koala bear whining perpetually. Or a turtle neck sweater that cries for no reason. Or the Incredible Hulk keeping a mom in a headlock while EXCLUSIVELY wearing skirts. This is my daughter. She is going through a phase (Dear God, let it be a phase) where she is beyond clingy.
She is single-handedly bringing back the choker necklace of the 90’s by BECOMING a choker.
She repeatedly gets down from the bench during dinner to give me a hug, despite being told repeatedly to withhold affection until after we eat.
She lies on top of me, kicking me over and over and over and then when I finally break down and yell at her she says, “I just want to give you a hug!” (Or kick the shit out of me)
She wants me to carry her, she wants to cook with me, she wants me to color WITH her. Inevitably when we color together, she gets bored and starts scribbling spastically all over whatever masterpiece I’ve created.
Sometimes I feel like instead of giving birth to a child, I actually have a parasitic twin attached to my body.
The other night I told her it was time to bed after we finished reading and she started to fake cry. I told her to read a book on her own and she went ape crap.
I got annoyed and told her to pull it together.
Then she said, “I can’t read a book on my own, BECAUSE I CAN’T READ THE WORDS!”
Now I’M the dick. It has to be incredibly frustrating to be just a few letter sounds away from being able to read by yourself.
That being said, I am starting to think it’s strange that my children have ZERO ability to entertain themselves. (even together)
As I have previously posted, I suck at pretend.
I harbor a secret desire to burn her dollhouse down.
I can only find so many ways to rearrange the six pieces of furniture.
I have on more than one occasion plunked my daughter down on the couch, put on a new movie and tried to sneak in a nap in the bedroom. (Door open. I am not a HORRIBLE parent.)
Within ten minutes I will hear the heavy breathing of a small being standing next to me, staring at me, waiting for me to open my eyes.
It’s like I have my own personal serial killer, who is determined to murder me with crappy kid movies.
She won’t even sing without me. If I stop singing Frozen songs because I am doing something totally unimportant like trying to help her little brother poop on the potty, she starts to whisper-sing, looking uncomfortable like she just forgot her lines in the school play.
I probably shouldn’t talk considering that my mother could’ve nicknamed me “the tumor” until I was in high school. But, seriously, was I this annoying?
I’ve started calling her an Australian Sheperd. “The Aussie has considerable energy and drive, and usually needs a job to do.”
That’s my kid.
If you don’t give her a task, she’ll throw a shit-fit and possibly even piss on the rug. (Maybe not, but her temper tantrums ARE escalating.) She is a lovely child. Brilliant, hilarious, spirited and driven.
Now, can someone please borrow her for a couple of hours so I can have a hot date with my husband?
I am starting to think no one can be more cruel and insulting than a toddler. I’ve been called a lot of different names, but somehow none sting as badly as the ones spewed from the mouths of babes.
The other night I was lying in my daughter’s bed, reading her a book and she started smacking my stomach and chanting “Fat belly! Fat belly!”
I told her that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.
She responded, “But, you’re belly is big so it’s a fat belly.” I asked her where she learned to say that and she told me from her daycare worker.
(Reason #456 why I wish I was a stay-at-home mom)
It was enough to make me want to do 1,000 crunches immediately and swear off the consumption of beer for the rest of my life.
I’ve moved past showering or bathing in front of my daughter. I’m done fielding the awkward kind of questions you anticipate from a kid at least in the double-digit age range. I learned my lesson when she started poking through the trash so she could point out “pons.”
But, the other day it was unavoidable. I was getting dressed and she looked at me and said, “Mommy, you’re ewwwww.”
My mother tried to make me feel better about the whole exchange, saying small children just don’t understand the way adult bodies look. They think little kid bodies are normal. Nice try, ma. I still feel like getting lipo.
Awhile ago, Alma told me I have “up hair, like a boy.” She means “short hair” but of course it was the “like a boy” part that made me feel butch and brawny. It was enough to convince me to grow out my hair. (which means I will shortly end up trapped in the stage where I look just like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse)
Then there was the day when she said, “I love Daddy. You love me. But, I don’t love you.” I thought perhaps she was confused. I asked her to repeat herself and she said the exact same thing again. Awesome.
Before my daughter graduated to verbal insults, there were the physical ones. As an infant, she thought it was hilarious to slap me repeatedly in the face, sometimes in public. The only tactic that worked was humiliating. I had to allow her to slap me over and over and over while not reacting at all. It worked, but not before many tears were shed.
Do the Gods of genetics throw me a bone with my son?
He’s a hitter AND a kicker. If I don’t react at all to his attacks, he just keeps on hitting and kicking. He’s like the long-distance runner of assault and battery. If his skill level in bruising and beating me is any indication, his verbal insults will entail F-bombs.
The worst thing about all of this? There is no satisfying revenge. I can’t fire back at Alma that giving birth to her is what stretched out my belly skin to create a perfect calorie pouch. I can’t kick Huck in the shins, though Lord knows the desire is occasionally there.
I guess I’ll just go cry and do crunches.