Jack is at a peculiar age. We're less than a month away from his third birthday, and evidently he has plans on ringing it in with my sanity hanging by a thread. When did three become the new thirteen? He walks around the house like he owns the place, grabbing, screaming, pitching fits, and basically, it's his way or the highway. Or, there will be blood-and not in a cool Daniel Day Lewis, "I drink your milkshake" way.
Here's what an average day looks like-
And when he's not doing that at home, he's tantruming at Target, which I secretly think is because he senses that I so adore shopping there. He instinctively knows that to take down a leader, you must first take away their resources, thus begins his quest to destroy merchandise whilst trying to steal my food/chair/brush/soul, and just generally being a disheveled rapscallion*. Every day starts with a tantrum and ends with what I assume to be the beginning stages of alcoholism.
As I'm looking over the evidence as the day winds down, I find myself baffled, wondering where my sweet-natured little boy went, and who sent this clone-hell bent on destruction-to take his place. Then I ask myself: Where did I fuck up along the way?
"Maybe we spoiled him too much? Maybe I need more patience. I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE! No! I can! I am woman! Hear me roar!"
Everyday I get broken down and it's my job to build myself back up. And everyday I find myself thinking of other women, other mothers, and I'm amazed that there are so many who are out there doing it alone, doing it with less, doing it with multiple children and jobs. And I'm amazed.
Motherhood takes balls. It's not for the weak of stomach or the faint of heart. So I tip my hat to all of you out there. You're all my heroes.
Nevertheless, Jack is still on my shit list.
*I'm happy I finally got to use "rapscallion" in a post.