I'm going to go ahead and talk about the elephant in the nursery:
Today, I don't really like being a mother.
Everything I want to do? Can't do it.
Naps? They won't take 'em.
Work? Like they'd let me.
And the one time I actually got t.rex almost asleep, the Biscuit banged his door open, hopped over his baby gate, and screamed that she needed a ponytail like Tinkerbell's, causing him to pop up like a demented jack-in-the-box.
I've been scratched, clawed, hollered at, smacked, drained, pooped on, and petitioned for one more snack until it feels like 40,000 baby iguanas are ice skating on my brain to a Lady Gaga song.
These are the days that really test my mettle. Painting a mural? Fun. Writing a book? Easy. Flying cross-country to work for Lexus? Pshaw.
Getting to 6pm without screaming so hard I pee myself?
I'm not makin' any promises.
I can feel that part of it is hormonal, that my body is doing something annoying and irrational that probably once helped my ancestors kill bears. And part of it is the kids themselves, because if there is an age more annoying than 15 months, which has all of the mobility with none of the caution, then it is surely 36 months, which has all of the boundary pushing insanity of... I don't know... a weasel in a soap bubble.
Sometimes, and it's hard to admit this, I don't feel like I have the chops to be a mom of two, like there's simply not enough of me to go around. I spend a day like today, where I yell and nag more than I hug and read, and I am nearly overwhelmed with guilt and self disgust. I don't even like myself, really.
But raising a child to be a strong, self-sufficient human being means that they aren't going to be happy all the time. That every day won't be a trip to the zoo, complete with cotton candy and a ride on the carousel. Some days are going to flat out stink, for them and for me.
So listen up, kids. Today's suckage is my gift to you.
Because just think how great tomorrow will be by comparison.