The Tot Offensive

When you have a parenting day as bad as the one I just had, there is only one real thing you can do- hide in another room and cry.  I should have started the day hiding- maybe then things would have gone better.  But no, I had to TRY.  Mistake number one.  Mistake number 2: Thinking “Oh, look at my little girl in her little dress!  Isn’t she so cute!” NO!  NO is the answer to that question.   She might be cute at other times, but today she was a seething mess of whining, hitting, spilling, peeing and more whining.  She alternated smacking me in the face with making tiny cute presents for me and delivering them to me in the sweetest way- getting me to let my guard down before launching another offensive.  If you think you can’t be outwitted, outlasted or outplayed by a two year old, you are just plain wrong.  If you can do it, be my guest and call up Jeff Probst. If Survivor: Toddler Island was a real show, I would be the first one gone and the first one indicted. 

And so I am left to hobble around like a pregnant Marg Helgenberger with worse hair and try to understand the gory crime scene before me. From my safe perch on the recliner, I can see:

An inside-out tutu

A feather boa draped over an overturned keyboard

Four different single shoes, no pairs

A wet towel- unknown fluid

A cup shoved so hard under the couch that it’s bent into an oval (possible source of fluid on towel)

No less than 4 strands of mardi gras beads (probably will be used to try to strangle me later)

A brochure on “cooking healthy with toddlers” from the grocery store (oh, is this a guide comparing the different brands of chicken nuggets?)

A pair of binoculars shoved under the edge of the rug

Four knee hockey sticks (note to self: find an old pair of shinguards and WEAR them)

A face-down Elmo- head wrapped in a baby wipe

That’s really just the start of the post mortem on today.  I could go on.  I didn’t list the things that were thrown at my head, or discuss the part of the day where I was laying on the couch while “WAKE UP MOMMY” was screamed into a microphone an inch from my ear.  The worst part?  It’s only 6:24.  And my tot is SLEEPING.  Like NAPPING.  AT 6 mother@#^$@ 24.   Though I wish I could declare victory, she is just laying in wait and recharging- the second offensive begins the moment she wakes up and continues until roughly midnight.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.  And by "once more" I mean every day for the rest of my life.  Pass the coffee.  Actually, better make it heroin if you have some.