This one doesn’t sit in the corner of a room near the changing table. It doesn’t magically appear from a jeweled lamp.
This genie is a 5′ 10″, brown-haired, blue-eyed drudge who answers to frantic distress calls of “WET!” multitudinous times between 12am and 4:30am.
Elsa: Mommy… MOMmy… MOMMY!
Mommy: Re-adjusts her cocoon of blankets as if nothing has happened.
Elsa: Wet. OWWW! WET.
Mommy: Takes a deep breath, recalling the numerous times that Elsa has quietly ripped off her diaper in the middle of the night and soon thereafter, found herself napping in a river of gold. Quickly jumps to attention.
Mommy: For a moment, wonders if she has been dreaming, but alas… there it is again.
Mommy: In a daze, grabs a diaper, knocking all other diapers (and everything within a 2 foot radius), to the floor. Doesn’t care. Proceeds to change diaper. Frustrated, wraps up the only slightly damp diaper, haphazardly tosses it near the trash can and proceeds to bed.
Repeat 3 times.
The next morning…
Mommy: Cleans up shrapnel.
They are only two, after all. They are only two. Only two, I remind myself.
This morning, James wanted “gah-gas”. I pulled out crackers of every sort, put them in a bowl and set them on the table. Not good enough. What the heck. He screamed and cried, threw several mini-tantrums, and continued to yell
It’s been a while. Please don’t judge. Two (count them O-N-E, T-W-O) 2-year-olds… remember?
My children are not my own anymore. I mean, they are mine, I own them, in the same way I own my dog – I love them, feed and water them, clothe them, and make sure they learn appropriate tricks, but…
It was a lovely, warm, sun-filled Saturday. A friend and her two girls were coming over for a play date, while our husbands spent the day with little white balls and metal sticks on a luscious, green carpet of grass.
At 8am, I realized that we were running low on milk. Blasphemy! No milk =