I’m thinking about going out for a margarita, alone. In your twenties hitting the town on a Thursday night is pretty much the norm. When you are a 37-year-old mother of three, sitting at a bar stool, people either look down on you or ugly men with toupées hit on you.
I need something after getting my ass kicked by a 2-year-old. My sweet princess had a meltdown during bath time. She refused to get out of the tub, but didn’t want to stay in the water either. People without kids are saying to themselves, “Well, that doesn’t make any sense.” No. It doesn’t. However, a toddler who hasn’t napped and is tired as hell rarely does.
If I don’t take her out she will keep crying. When I attempt to wrap her in a towel she is going to wail and punch me. I can’t win here. Just as I was about to make my move my husband rushed out of the room. When I demanded his return he walked back in with his phone to his ear and papers in hand. “It’s work,” he said in an apologetic whisper. Then, his face touched the screen and I noticed he was actually playing some sort of farm game. He actually pretended to take a phone call to feed imaginary cows and avoid the situation. Are you kidding me?
My daughter flailed her arms and legs when I tried to put on her pajamas. She started throwing toys and pillows off the bed. I sat down and took a deep breath. At this point time-out won’t do shit. A judge would deem her temporarily insane. She finally got tired, climbed into my arms and fell asleep. In the morning, she will awaken happy and refreshed as if nothing ever happened. My husband would like to do the same. However, after that little stunt Farmer Brown won’t be as lucky.
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