Bad Day...

In spite of its overwhelming overexposure, I actually really like the song "Bad Day"... something about the words connects in my strung out brain... And yesterday was a bad day.

I love my kids equally because, well, that is what parents do

The joy of being with Toby, of holding him and playing with him, is unbroken. He's almost never fussy, and loves me beyond all reason or sanity.

And then there is Jack. My amazing, funny, intelligent, totally independent and highly opinionated little mini-man. People have always told me three-year-olds are difficult, and it's not that I didn't believe them; it's that believing and truly understanding are two very different things.

Every single conversation with Jack is a learning experience...for me. I try to also make it a teaching experience, but at the age of "nearly three", he already learns more on his own than I could hope to teach him. And he has an opinion on everything. I mean, literally, Every Single Thing.

Let's take yesterday, the Bad Day, for example. Every morning Jack has a Pediasure shake for breakfast. (and just to prove he has relatives in Utah, he says it "Melk Shake".. usually in a scream about thirty or forty times.) Yesterday, he drank it down in about 10 seconds, then opened the fridge (after first opening the "toddler lock" on the door in record time) and removed a piece of string cheese. After carefully re-locking the fridge (yes, he locks it behind him) he handed me the cheese. I opened it, he ate it. Lather, rinse, repeat.

That makes 2 pieces of string cheese (for anyone keeping track.)

On his third trip to the fridge I told him, in no uncertain terms, that two pieces of mozzarella was plenty and he could move on to something else if he was still hungry. I offered crackers, fruit snacks, strawberries... until he threw himself bodily to the floor and did his best impression of a grand mal seizure. So, I did what any good parent would do... I walked away, counted to ten, grabbed the nearest couch cushion, and screamed into it until my lungs deflated.

While I was practicing my deep breathing (and keeping an eye out the window in case a band of gypsies should happen into my neighborhood and have use for one very gently-used small boy) Jack once again unlocked the fridge, opened the door, removed a piece of string cheese and, very calmly and deliberately, figured out how to open the wrapper himself.

He held it up to the sunlight as though he had pulled Excalibur from the stone, flashed me his biggest triumphant grin, and bit into his prize with satisfaction.

Now, on the one hand, I have just been openly defied by a child who barely reaches my kneecaps. On the other hand, my toddler just mastered the manual dexterity open a peel-down wrapper.

The constant state of simultaneous pride, rage, and exasperation is enough to give a person hives. Or at least a fair share of exhausted "bad days".