Before I had love nuggets of my own, it was very easy to categorize a child. There were the quiet ones, the crazy ones, and the naughty ones. There were the “perfect” kids that always did what they were told and never made a peep. The crazy ones were entertaining and mostly rule abiding, but sometimes just needed the gentle reminder or two. And the naughty ones were just that. Naughty. And I’ve noticed that most people have the same response when referring to those “naughty” kids:

“Well, they need to be disciplined at home!”

or

“Obviously, their parents let them do whatever they want.”

Well, I’m scared to admit that I have all 3 of those types of kids. No, I did not birth a third child without anyone aware of my pregnancy (Dear God….that’s terrifying. I think my uterus just shriveled up and died). I just have an infant (the cards are still out on his demeanor) and one miniature dictator that can become any one of those three types of children at a nanoseconds notice. And I can tell you right now, no amount of my discipline can prevent the change in the mood tide that is Everlee.

To the other moms that can relate to this, I get you. I am only a mere 3.5 years in to this whole parenting thing, but already, I get you. I am aware that I have a looooong way to go in this emotional rollercoaster. I know that I have A LOT of learning to do. But 3.5 years is enough time to come to the realization that without the help of my family, friends, and Tito’s Vodka, then I won’t make it out of this alive. Or sane.

Let me start with this: I love my daughter. I love her so much it HURTS sometimes. Like honestly, gut-wrenchingly HURTS. And her positive attributes FAR surpass her negatives. She is hilarious. HILARIOUS. Any toddler that beat boxes and makes up raps to the tune of “Can’t Touch This” is LEGIT. Her one-liners and large vocabulary are two of my favorite things about her. My days are so much happier since she’s been born. But she can change her demeanor faster than Elizabeth Taylor can find a husband (awwwwwww SNAP).

I was not blessed with the quiet child that always follows the rules (Curse you, Moms of perfect children!!). Everlee doesn’t even know how to whisper. Honestly, we practice. She can’t do it. She has two volumes: Loud, and asleep. She can go from running to me for an unsolicited hug and kiss to lying on the floor in a fit of rage and fury all within a few minutes. She can start her day as the “perfect” kid and then quickly become the “naughty” one.

I am not blind. I see that, especially recently, my kid is the one whining in her class. Or rolling on the floor. Or crying. Or being sassy. I see that. And it hurts me, a LOT. I had never truly understood how many feels a parent gets when they realize that their kid may be the hard to handle one in class. Yes, she has good weeks. Yes, several times she can go to class and be perfectly fine. But then other times, she doesn’t. Other times, she’s a distraction. And here is a public service announcement: I DISCIPLINE MY KID. Period.

I am a teacher myself. I completely understand the importance of structure and discipline in a child’s life. And on some days, just the THOUGHT of getting in trouble could send Everlee in to a nervous breakdown. And then, quite frankly, some days she cares about getting in trouble about the same amount as she cares to watch The Nightly News. (*ehem* that means she DOESN’T. CARE.)

I did not change the way I discipline her that day. I raise her the same way on a Friday as I do on a Saturday. But because she is tiny mess of crazy, that basically can mean jack. And since I have a little nugget of nutball myself, I now understand those “naughty” kids a little bit better. Now, when I see a kid that isn’t behaving perfectly that others may become annoyed or frustrated with, I cut that kid and parent some slack. Maybe that child did not get a nap that day. Maybe that child is not feeling well. Maybe that child has such a big personality that they have a hard time controlling their emotions. Maybe that child just friggen flipped their shit for no apparent reason and that Mom is either ready to cry or pour herself a drink. Or, if she is like me, cry AND pour a drink. No matter what the circumstance, I get that mom. And just so you know, I’M ON YOUR SIDE, MOM.

This week has been a particularly hard one for me in this department. My job is at it’s busiest point and it’s tax season, so naturally my daughter decided that  this is the perfect time to morph in to the devil herself at every public place. And now I understand how hard it is on a mama’s soul when this happens. Every parent wants to raise their child with manners, respect, and courtesy. And when you try and try and try to instill these qualities and your child STILL decides to body slam herself down in the Target cart and scream “YOU AREN’T THE BOSS OF ME!”, then your soul aches. You feel like a failure. You feel like all of the long days of timeouts and forced naps have gone wasted. In an effort to correct the negative behavior you feel like each and every day becomes more discipline and less fun. And you know what? It should be fun, too. We deserve to ignore a few negative behaviors in an effort to just have some fun with our kids.

So, here’s to you, fellow moms of loose-cannon kids. Next time I see you at a restaurant and your child throws a fork across the room and cackles, I applaud YOU. Next time I am at the mall and I see your mini-me go ape-shit psychotic when she doesn’t get that toy, I applaud YOU. And I promise you, I will not mumble the words:

“She should discipline her kid more at home.”

Instead, we will march our stressed-out asses over to the nearest bar and grill and get ourselves some beers while our sometimes perfect, sometimes naughty children argue over who gets the last French fry.

We are all on the same side. We are all one team. And sometimes we just need to hear that we are doing a good job and this will all be OK.

So CHEERS to all the parents of non-conforming spawns 🙂

I love my children. They give me purpose and complete my life in a way that every parent can understand. I am very fortunate. But if I am faced with a choice of either gnawing on styrofoam for lunch because we have no food or toting my two love nuggets to the grocery store with me, I choose styrofoam.

Shopping with a toddler is the ultimate test of a sane person’s patience level. If you can make it out of the store with both you AND your tiny human alive and intact, disregarding whether or not you even purchased half the items on your list, then congratulations! You win! For real, you win at everything. Go get yourself a double cheeseburger and a beer, you earned it. On my next day off you may see me hanging out by the exit doors of my local grocery store, doling out high-fives and margarita shooters to every parent that leaves the store with their children and no one is bleeding.

All of these strong feels are partially my fault, though. I should have known. I should have paid more attention to the signs that Saturday was NOT the best day to voluntarily invite my oldest spawn to accompany me to the store. But despite the fact that both of my children are currently incubuses of plague and are therefore EXTRA spicy in the behavior department, I thought that getting her out of the house would be a good thing. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The day actually started off OK. I can’t count on both hands how many times Everlee said:

“I like ya, Mom!”

“Mom, you’re so GORGEOUS!”

“You’re a sweetheart, Mom!”

I thought she just wanted me to buy her a jet, but now I know it was just a precursor to the impending shitstorm that was about to ensue. Maybe I should have remembered that she had already been in timeout twice that morning. Maybe I should have really thought about the fact that immediately after I VERY FIRMLY told her (for the fifth freaking time) to put her milk cup in the fridge, she turned around to face me and MOON WALKED her tiny legs in to the kitchen without ONCE breaking her eye contact until she was around the corner. (Confession: I really had a hard time stifling the laughter on that one. Sometimes my kid is awesome).

I should have processed the fact that, while Kyle was mulling over the dinner options for the 900th time, that she straight-up died of boredom on the kitchen floor out of irritation. (I have to admit, she had a point). She did not move or speak, just face-planted her stubborn body on to the floor and waited for Kyle to get the hint. He got it.

 I should have remembered that she hadn’t eaten anything all day due to the annoying fact that she was asking for food, receiving said food, refusing to eat said requested food, then losing half her body weight in tears when the dog ate said requested food.

“Mom, can I have a banana?”

“Yes, here you go”

**Ev sets banana in the toybox**

“Everlee, eat the banana.”

“I don’t want it!!”

**meanwhile, dog digs banana out of toybox and devours**

“AAAHHHHHH COSMO ATE MY FOOD I’M SO HUNNNGRRRRYYYY waaaahhhh wah wah wahhhhhhhhhhh!”

**Repeat scenario with cereal, pancakes, strawberries, animal crackers, peanut butter and jelly, and a hamburger bun*

*Insert mom’s impending insanity here*

Yea… JUST MAYBE if I had remembered all that, I would have rethought my decision. But alas, I did not. And here we are. Here we are at the VERY PUBLIC grocery store with a three year old that seems to have forgotten that the world does not revolve around her peanut body.

It immediately started to go south right off the bat in the produce department. While I was looking at my salad options, a nice lady walks up, grabs a salad, and puts it in her cart despite the fact that Everlee SO POLITELY proclaimed that that was OUR SALAD. Lock it up, you little turd, that’s not nice and you won’t even eat the freaking salads anyway! Oiy.

Fast forward to the deli department. Actually, no, it was not fast forward because she kept touching EVERY FREAKING THING THAT SHE COULD REACH HER TINY TIRANT FINGERS OUT TO TOUCH. So I ended up purchasing two potatoes and an onion that were NOT on my list, simply because her grubby little nubs got ahold of them and dropped them on the floor. BUT I did just enjoy a delicious baked potato for lunch, so I digress…

I made it as far as the pasta aisle before her MAGICAL GO-GO GADGET ARMS somehow managed to make contact with the box of spaghetti on the bottom of the stack and sent several boxes flying. (If you recently purchased spaghetti and are wondering why your noodles are broken in to 100 pieces, look no further. I apologize). TIMEOUT #1 occurred right there by the Prego. How can someone so tiny stretch her tiny arms out so stealthily? It’s a mind-blowing talent, I tell ya.

So after a few minutes of timeout and a firm talking to, we get to shopping again:

*TOUCH*

*TOUCH TOUCH*

*TOUCH THAT AND THAT AND THAT*

*MINE*

*POKE POKE POKE*

*HEY! LOOK AT THAT! *grabs random Asian sauce and throws it in to the cart.*

*COLLAPSES BODY IN TO THE BOTTOM OF THE CAR CART LIKE A LITTLE TODDLER BURRITO*

*HELP! I’M STUCK!*

*STICKS FINGERS THROUGH THE CART WHILE SMOOSHED AND POKES THE VELVEETA*

*MANAGES TO CLIMB UP AND STAND ON THE SEAT WITH HER ARMS IN THE AIR AND PROCLAIM THAT SHE IS THE MASTER OF THE HYVEE*

*HEY! WHAT’S THAT? *punches a box of muffin mix*

(Cue Timeout #2 alongside the Betty Crocker while I longingly stared at the grapefruit beer sitting there on the endcap and wondered just how much trouble I would be in if I just cracked one of those bad boys open right there by the baking soda.)

At this point, I need a nap. A glass of wine and a nap. We turn the corner to see a cart-traffic-jam (a cart jam, perhaps?!) and Everlee, amidst all of her irritation with the lack of movement, grabs the steering wheel of the cart, pretends to honk the horn and yells to the stranger in front of us:

“Beep Beep! Get out of my way!”

THAT’S IT, Mouthy McGee, NOW MAMA’S MAAAAD.

And she knew it. The look I gave her would have melted the face right off of Satan himself. RIGHT. MOTHA-FREAKING. OFF. And after I walked her butt over to the man and made her apologize for her unbecoming behavior, she climbed back in the cart, hid her head in the steering wheel, and didn’t talk for the last 20 minutes of the trip. It was the MOST GLORIOUS 20 MINUTES OF MY EXISTENCE. And as I wheeled the cart with my sulking toddler right in to the walk-in beer cooler, I didn’t even try to count how many people were judging me. In hindsight, I should have invited all the Judy McJudgertons to go shopping with my toddler, instead. They would have understood, felt compelled to buy me a drink, and I would have gotten all my alcohol FO’ FREE. Eh, next time, Sally Jo Judge-A-Lot. Next time.

And after I had already put a six-pack and a handle of margaritas in my cart, I accidentally made eye contact with my spawn and I caught a glimpse of that little twinkle that I know so well. It is the crazy look in her eye that appears shortly before she turns on her ornery and becomes a tiny version of myself again. So I walked my tired ass right back over to the cooler and grabbed me one more six pack….

Happy Monday! I trust that everyone had a stupendous weekend. Mine was definitely full of fun and excitement (*ahem* BACONFEST!). The last thing my tired, old eyes are wanting to do on a sucky Monday is read a novel, so please enjoy this brief overview of the main events of my weekend, portrayed via meme.

Toddlers: 1

Parents: 0

————————————————————————————————

“Everlee, don’t throw your blanket in the air.”

“I JUST LIKE TO PARTTTTYYYYYYYY!”

————————————————————————————————-

“Ev, be nice to him.”

“HE’S MY BROTHER!”

“Yes, that’s why you have to be nice to him.”

“He LOVES me! He’s sooooo cuuuuuuuuuuute!”

“Then stop squeezing his tummy!”

“BUT IT’S SO FAT FOR MY SQUEEZINS’!”

—————————————————————————————————

“Mom, can I watch the Minion movie?”

“Yes.”

*starts sobbing hysterically*

“Why are you crying?!”

*stops for a second and thinks…*

“I don’t know. I thought you were going to say no.”

*starts crying again*

“So you are crying because I said yes to what you wanted to do? That makes no sense.”

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO SAY NO!”

“I can’t win with you, can I, Ev?”

*shrugs shoulders*

“Nope.”

———————————————————————————————————–

“Ev, go upstairs and bring down your cup of milk and put it in the refrigerator.”

“YOU ALWAYS TELL ME TO DO THINGS THAT RUIN MY DAY!!!”

*fist pump in the air*

“Ok. Be right back.“     *walks upstairs*

—————————————————————————————————–

“Everlee, what are you doing?”

“”What?”

“What are you doing?!”

“WHAT?”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

“GOOOOOOD!”

“No, not HOW are you doing, WHAT are you doing?!”

*Ev bursts out laughing*

“I like ya, Mom.”

————————————————————————————————–

“Hey, Mom, I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“Well, I took my finger like DIS and I pointed it out like DIS and I POKED it right in to Leyton’s eye.”

“Everlee, STOP POKING YOUR BROTHER!”

“BUT HE HAS TWO EYES SO ONE OF THEM WILL STILL WORK!”

—————————————————————————————————-

“Mom, can I have this peanut butter cup?”

“No. It’s too early for candy. Let’s have breakfast instead.”

“No, thank you. I’ll just have this peanut butter cup.”

“Everlee, I said NO.”

“BUT I LIKE CHOCOLATE!”

“Well, too bad. I like Jimmy Johns but I don’t get that in the mornings.”

*Toddler opens fridge and pulls out leftover Jimmy Johns I was unaware was in there*

“Here you go. You eat this Jimmy Johns and I’ll just eat this delicious candy.”

——————————————————————————————————

“Ev, you have to eat more dinner before you can get down;”

*opens gaping mouth, crosses one eye and freezes like a statue*

“Everlee, EAT!”

*still not moving*

——————————————————————————————————–

“Ev, you need to at least put some underwear on.”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just be SUPER naked.”

“No, come here. Underwear. Now.”

“UGH!” *shuffles over and steps one foot in to undies*

“I just tooted.”

——————————————————————————————————

“I’m on the phone. You need to wait a minute.”

*points her finger to the person on the phone and makes a megaphone with her hands*

“YOU USED TO CALL ME ON MY CELL PHOOOONE. LATE NIGHT WHEN YOU NEEEED MYYYY MOM!“

*Walks away*

——————————————————————————————————

“DO NOT STEP ON YOUR BROTHER!”

“BUT HE PULLED MY HAIR!”

“He doesn’t know any better, Ev. He’s a baby!”

“WELL HE BETTER FIGURE IT OUT!”

———————————————————————————————————

“Mom.”

“Yes?”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“MOM!”

“WHAT, EVERLEE?!?”

“Nothing.”

———————————————————————————————————-

“Pick me up.”

“I can’t right now. I’m working.”

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”

“Not right now, Ev. I have to finish this work.”

“But you ALWAYS pick me up!”

“Not when I’m busy, Everlee.”

“Pick me up!”

“I SAID NO.”

“I SAID YES!”

“I SAID TIMEOUT!!!”

“AAAAHHHHHH WHY?!? This is TERRIBLE! JUST TERRIBLE!!!”

*Goes to timeout*

Turning 30 was not exactly something that I was looking forward to. I mean, I wasn’t exactly dreading it, but I wasn’t real excited to ring in a new decade of oldness. Partially because I felt like my maturity level was much more fitting of a person in their 20’s, or let’s be honest, a 15 year old, and partially because I was not ready to invest half my salary in anti-wrinkle creams and Metamucil. (correction: I already have a Sam’s Club size tub of Metamucil. Let’s just blame that on pregnancy and plumbing issues. So the Metamucil is a moot point. Whatevs…)  I just felt like a person in their 30’s resemble a much more sophicated and put-together human than myself. I simply don’t fit the bill.

I mean, honestly…I spent a good amount of time running around the neighborhood in my pajama pants trying to catch my 1,000 lb mammoth of a dog while my neighbors stood by, no doubt awe-stricken at my lack of grace and appropriate attire (amiright 28th Street?). I slipped on every patch of ice within a 10 foot radius and face planted in “Lucy Lucy the Luscious Lawn Lady’s” front yard before tackling my beastly canine to the ground in a fit of strength and rage. And when my feeble attempts to pick up my fatty dog friend failed, I was forced to chase him YET AGAIN across the street to another neighbors’ lawn while he started his infamous “circle circle shake yo’ ass squat and poop” dance. And who’s yard was he preparing to drop a deuce in, you ask? None other than my FAVORITE NEIGHBORS OF ALL TIME whose pastimes include doling out copious amounts of passive-aggressive criticisms and wearing head-to-toe matching outfits every. damn. day. Oh, and something about a snowblower? Remember that? Yea, me too. (If you don’t, just take me out for a beer and I’ll fill in the blanks) And was my stupid dog doing the poop circle right underneath the window that my lovely neighbor was looking out from? Yes. Yes he was. So I ran my snow-soaked pajama pants over as fast as I could to head off the steaming pile that was about to melt the snow in the most inopportune of places. And if it weren’t for the sweet neighbor boy who ultimately won the battle and got my mangy dog back home, then I would still be alligator-death-rolling around in the lawn that belongs to the devil himself.

So, do you pick up what I’m putting down? I am nowhere near mature enough to adult. I don’t adult well. But then nothing can swoop in and make you feel any older than a 3 year old with a keen eye for details and a bad judge of age.

“Happy birthday, MOM! Let’s count to your age. 1, 2, 3, 456789 100!”

“Mom, why are your eye brows so hairy?”

“What’s that on your face, Mom? Is it an owie? Oh, it’s a zit. People get zits when their older.”

Or an infant that give you this look upon upon seeing you without makeup:

Geez….ok, ok I get it. I’m entering a new decade whether I like it or not. My elementary-aged students guessed my age to be in the late 40’s, so I better take 30 and shut up before it’s too late. But on a day when your calm, rule-abiding daughter (HA!) decides to wait until your infant son is screaming his friggen head off to take off her pants, shake her booty, and ask if her crack is showing…then you realize that your patience level is much closer to age 30 than 20. And when your students scare you so bad that you pee right in your old-ass underpants, then you realize you aren’t 20 anymore. And when you have to shove cold cabbage leaves in your bra every 20 minutes or else your mammary glands will turn into soccer balls and generate their own pulse rate, you are again reminded that 30 might be fitting for you. Have you ever felt like you were stabbed INSIDE of your armpit? It’s glorious, I tell ya.

Then you wake up on the morning of said birthday and you realize that you let yourself run out of coffee. I repeat, YOU RAN COMPLETELY OUT OF COFFEE. Sweet, sweet, life-saving coffee. Before you completely go off the deep end, your loving mother delivers some fresh, Columbian bean juice just in time to prevent you from slamming your head into the wall. Yay for moms! But in a dramatic and unfortunate turn of events, your STUPID MAMMOTH CANINE gets all bajiggity again and SPILLS your freshly delivered caffeinated bean juice all over the furniture and floor right before open mouth kissing your infant. Hello, 30, you are kind of a biotch.

But amidst the lunacy, I have come to terms with starting this new decade. I have a huge circle of family, friends, and students that filled my birthday with love, happiness, brownies, wine and crab rangoons (LEGIT). I had people surprise me with gifts and hilariously failed scavenger hunts for cake and ice cream. I had students embrace the fact that I have to wear men’s deodorant every day because of my super awesome sweating issue and bought me Old Spice ‘Swagger’. Clearly, admitting that little tidbit could have shunned me from society for good, but instead they joined in the fun and spent their hard-earned cash on my personal hygiene. I had family and friends posting terribly unflattering pictures of me all over the interweb (DAMN THE CLOUD!) that made me giggle and reminded me of my immaturity. But it also reminded me that most of my time is spent making laughter. That the hard days are fleeting in comparison to the hundreds of joyous ones. If most people only have photos of me making a mockery of myself, then that must mean that most of my time is spent in the presence of fun. And if that is what makes me 30, then Cheers to the new decade!

Upon finishing the year-end taxes for two different businesses, I came across a lovely overpayment (say WHAAAT?). Thus ensuring that one business will be receiving some money back. The following will be included in the Form 941 envelope to the United States Treasury:

So hey, it’s Thursday. Congratulations! We have almost made it to another Friday. A glorious, glorious Friday. But not yet, because it’s still mother freaking Thursday. And what do I really care, anyway? Does my infant son recognize weekends and decide to sleep more than 3 hours at a time? No. HELL NO. He doesn’t give a pooping hoot what day it is. It’s ok though, when your cheeks are that freaking kissable, you make the rules. Whatever…I’m still going to celebrate. Fridays just feel right.