I'm a lover of words, coffee and tequila. Lucky to be living my happily ever after as a wife and mom to two sweet kiddos and one crazy dog.

On why my three year old is probably trying to kill me


This morning, I picked you up from your crib and you instinctively wrapped your arms around my neck and squeezed, burying your head of sweaty, sleepy curls into my shoulder. The sunlight was streaming through your window and for a moment, I stood, breathing in the scent of you, feeling the weight of your body against my chest and appreciating the potential of the day.

Because not every morning starts this way. More often then not, you stir as soon as you hear me enter your room and begin to screech with a ferocity I naively assumed was reserved for moody teenagers "Mama, I'm just trying to sleep! Leave me in my bed!!!"

Listen little duck...I get it. The internal dialogue I have when my alarm goes off at 4:45 am is even less pleasant. But starting my day literally dodging your flailing limbs and trying to reason with you about why rain boats are not appropriate footwear for a 95 degree day? No fun. Did I mention I attempt to do this before I've had even a single cup of coffee?

The term "terrible twos" is a joke. I don't know if it is evolutionary inflation or what- but, only a few months in I can tell you that three is undeniably harder than two.

A few weeks ago we were out having breakfast with Mimi and Grandpa. You had taken off your shoes, covered every available surface with maple syrup and were doing everything but eating your breakfast. I looked at them and in full seriousness, trying to mask the panic in my voice, said "I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can actually be the parent of a three year old child"

They politely attempted to hide their sly, satisfied grins. They had been waiting for this moment at least since I has hit adolescence and gained an affinity for eye rolls and door slams and blatant defiance (probably earlier). This is the just desserts, karmic comeuppance that every parent holds on to, clinging to the hope that just one day, their child will understand the beautiful and almost unbearable disaster that parenthood ultimately becomes.

G, you push every last button I have. And when you find one that evokes a particularly interesting response? You push it again and again and AGAIN. Our house will not stay clean for more than 5 minutes, unless you are not home or are sleeping. Our living room looks like an entire pack of toddlers breezed through on a seek and destroy mission and our kitchen floor is covered with pebbles because it was easier to let you "plant" them so I could finish cooking dinner.

The laundry? Oh the laundry. For a tiny person, you certainly dirty a lot of clothes. I just can't keep up and on more than one occasion I find myself picking an outfit for myself up off my bedroom floor, checking to make sure it appears to be reasonably clean and wondering, only for a minute , if I had already worn in that week.

You have this look, where you throw your hands on your hips squint your eyes and say phrases so loaded with disbelief and disdain that I swear someone has hit the fast forward button on my life to the time when you will discover that you obviously know better than I do. Because this is played out in miniature, tiny human fashion, I have to turn around so you can't see me laughing, every single time- which only serves to infuriate me more.

Just today, you poked me in the stomach and asked me if there was a baby in there because it looked like there was. Last week, we had an enlightening conversation about female anatomy and you informed me that you had "small boobs" (please don't repeat this at daycare) just like me. I can forgive you these discretions because I have a distinct memory of telling my own mother that her bum resembled jello jigglers (for the record, my mother is one of the tiniest human beings I know- I can't even begin to imagine a world where any of her body parts resembled jello) Children are not kind.

By the time our nighttime routine is finished, I am tired. And I don't mean a little bit tired. I mean to the bone, don't want to move a single muscle or exercise the use of even one brain cell, exhausted. I crawl into bed at 7:30, with the intention of watching just one episode of mindless television or reading one chapter of the book it's been taking me months to finish before moving on to housework or other more productive ventures.I always fall asleep, only to be woken up by a phone call or text message from a normal functioning adult and have to try to pretend like I wasn't out cold at 8:30 on a Friday night.

When you burst into an enthusiastic
rendition of "Red Solo Cup" (thanks Auntie Robyn) during our once monthly trip to the fancier (aka more expensive) grocery store nearer to our house I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This is a common dilemma.

Typically, when we are in public or spending time with the people I have been complaining to... You are a vision of sweetness and light. With your gorgeous blonde curls and giant blue eyes that stare up at me behind fluttering lashes, willing me to just try and get too comfortable, to put my guard down for just one second (do you know what can happen in one second? iPads get smeared with Greek yogurt, milk is spilled all over the floor, hot pink nail polish decorates furniture, pages get ripped out of favorite books and the clean sheets of my bed become the perfect place to construct Play-Doh monsters). You make everyone laugh and run up to hug my legs just because and you make me wonder if it's not you, but me that is just a huge, inflexible ogre of a mother.

You, my dear, are sneaky like that.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for losing my patience for the umpteenth time and raising my voice even though I internally cringe every time I do so. I'm sorry for threatening you with ridiculous things like ridding the world of pink ice cream. I'm sorry that sometimes we don't read books before bed because the idea of choosing just two books that we both agree on and reading them in a way that meets your requirements is just too overwhelming. I'm sorry sometimes we eat cheerios for dinner.

The things that make this time so difficult are the same that make it so wonderful. You are learning new things by the second, pushing the boundaries of your little world to the limit and sometimes, breaking straight through them.

You're already too smart for your own good and the number of moments I find myself in a viable battle of wits with a three year old is embarrassing.  Grandpa taught you about traffic signals recently and you are now my (literal) backseat driver, telling me when to slow down and when to stop and chastising me when I "cut it too close".

So let's keep on forgiving each other, ok? Choosing our battles and ignoring our messy house and bending the rules. Because if I'm not perfect, I certainly can't expect you to be.

In the moments you make me laugh until my stomach hurts, the times you do the right thing when you don't know I'm watching, the way you talk about being kind and thoughtful with a wisdom the defies your age...
I know we'll be ok.

I know you'll only be little for such a short while and before I know it I'll be looking back wistfully at these days and reveling in my slightly distorted memories of a simpler time.

And if we both make it to your 18th birthday, alive and relatively unscathed- I'm going to throw you myself one hell of a party

Just cut me some slack. Please?

I still love you to the moon and back,


Things I have learned about being in my twenties (so far)