Remember this? Also namby pamby shit. That was before Little Tyrant.
Someone please come put this pregnant hippo out of her misery because I can't take another day. I've always said Violet was a cool kid and I think that may have pissed God off. Like I was gloating maybe? And gloating is, like, the eighth deadly sin or something because that cool child? She is gone.
Last Tuesday, after a hardcore day of nonstop Braxton Hicks contractions, I noticed Violet wasn't acting like herself. Cut to Wednesday morning when her fever spiked to 103 and she was shaking like a Chihuahua in a bathtub. Crying, crying, crying. We were scared. Rushed her to the doctor, who remained annoyingly calm, and declared her fine, "just give her Motrin". I know a calm doctor is ideal, but after seeing my kid covered in a rash and radiating heat like a fireplace, I wanted dramatics.
We returned home and dutifully sat vigil with our fitful child. The fever abated and her temper inflated. She morphed from a sweet kid into Little Tyrant. The constant whining, and crying. And crying and whining. And whining until our ears bleed and we're lashing out at each other out of frustration.
There's this line, you know? This invisible line you cross and you aren't really aware of it. At first. Your kid's been sick and, my God, isn't bearing witness to your sick kid THE WORST? So you slave over their every demand. Blanky, check. Not this episode of Charlie Brown but that one. Check. Juice, check. I see that you tossed your sippy cup through the window... Oh you didn't want juice, you wanted milk? Check. This sandwich I made is not to your liking, madam? Please, let me slice some fruits and cheeses for you. You want me to flop my pregnant body in this awkward position near your toddler bed so that you can see me while you go to sleep? No problem.
Look at me tenderly lull my sick baby to sleep! I am the best parent ever!
Somewhere around day five, right after Little Tyrant bites the hand that feeds her, again, and clips your forehead with one of her tub toys because it was the wrong color, you start to feel taken advantage of. Like the high school gal who constantly puts out but never gets asked to prom, you realize that maybe, just maybe all, this work you're doing ain't getting you anywhere. And you've created a monster.
Apologies for the lack of posts here, but in between working full-time, writing for Babble, sobbing in the shower, feeling sorry for myself, catering to Little Tryant, and fighting with Serge, why, there just hasn't been any time.
Did you miss me? Tell me you missed me! And tell me my ass isn't as big as it looks in the mirror! Tell me I'm the prettiest girl EVER and that my nipples won't stay this size forever... because I don't think I'm gonna make it.