Sometimes wine just isn't enough - aka, the thrills and SPILLS of the Terrible Twos.

Let me preface this possibly jarring blog post (at least to some, perhaps) by saying, I love my daughter.  I would gladly lay down in front of a bus for her.  Fight off rabid zombie squirrels for her.  She is the squish to my peanut butter. 

However, there are times when the sound of her voice makes me want to kill myself. 

Moms, back me up here.  And when I say moms, I mean REAL moms....  Not the medicated, la la la, every thing is coming up roses all the time, I can't feel my face anymore ladies who call themselves moms.  I'm talking the down in the trenches, I can't talk anymore about poop or other bodily monstrosities (why didn't my mom ever WARN me about this crap), can't I just go to the bathroom ONCE in peace, I love you but please STOP touching me, moms.  

After 9 months of pregnancy, you have this little red, wrinkled gnome of baby-ness that you love.  You stare into your baby's face, searching for this feature or that feature, "does he/she look like me, my husband, my mother, etc?"  The first three weeks in hell you can't really remember because you haven't slept - you and your husband frequently dissolve into fits of hysterical laughter followed by weeping unabashedly because you're so tired.  You find yourself playing "rock, paper, scissors" to decide who has to get up when the baby cries.  But that eventually passes and you begin to gloat to your other new parent friends that YOUR baby sleeps for 4-5 hours at a stretch - nah nah nah nah.  

And then you slip into a steady groove at about 4 months when you can leave your baby in a swing or vibrating chair (within reach, of course) and do mundane things like read a book, make a grocery list, watch a TV show without worrying about him/her bursting inexplicably into flames or imploding on a burp. 

And then the wonder months come.  Those glorious months of rolling over, sitting up, crawling, standing and walking.  And you marvel at this human being who you had a hand in creating - who is clearly smarter and more advanced than any other baby that has ever lived.  "OMG, get the camera....she's a genius!  She just sat up, rolled over and did a handstand on the coffee table.  All while farting like an old man.  Mensa, here we COME!"  Everything is so cute and amazing.

And then those days pass.  Suddenly you are trying to outsmart a tiny, universe-laughing, mini-version of yourself.  The first-timers, like me, go for the baby-proofing kits at your local Target - the word "baby-proof" lulls you into a lovely false feeling of security and safety.  That feeling quickly passes when you are sitting on the living room floor cursing under your breath at the latches for the cabinets because you can't get them to release.

Hand them to your 12 month old - that shit will be released in a matter of seconds.  Totally negates the whole "baby-proofing" thing if your child is the only person that CAN get into the proofed items. 

You start stacking every item you ever owned higher and higher - making towers of books and DVDs that you don't want field stripped by a pro.  Looking around the room, never suspecting that chair legs might be used as a weapon against the cat - how on EARTH did he/she manage to get that chair leg off...and how is the chair still standing?!!

A few months of that and you are now a PRO at hiding, stacking, straight SELLING anything of yours that may be of interest to your kid.  You buy the learning toys that EVERYONE says you HAVE to have, spend the money on non-toxic engaging toys...and look over to see your darling baby playing with a ball of dust/cat fuzz from under the couch.  Winning.

And then comes the walking.  And then the running.  And then the climbing.  And jumping.  And basically at this point, your pets desert you without remorse.  Hiding from the whirlwind/spastic jumping bean that has become your child.  You want to hide too sometimes - don't lie.  You dream of days when the house is quiet - and it's not because it's 4am and everyone else is asleep.  You daydream about vacations alone and setting fire to that damn stroller that swore it could be opened one-handed, and takes 2 people and a lot of shaking to actually get it going. 

You wonder when the guys with the padded cell are gonna come get you because you can have an entire conversation of squeaks, honks and grunts with your child that you can ACTUALLY understand.  And you realize that you were LIED to by every mother you talked to before and WHILE you were pregnant. 

Secretly those bitches were laughing inside when you delusionally started talking about how much fun being a mother was going to be and how you couldn't wait for everything.  They knew the exact moment when you would swallow all your theories about parenting without yelling and would just lose your shit.  They looked at your clean and brushed hair and snickered. 

How far I have fallen.  And as I finished writing this lovely diatribe, I found a Cherrio in my hair that my 2 year old had so generously bestowed upon me. 

And I ate it.