Just my two cents. Otherwise the festivities are quite a snooze and HELLO, it's too early for a blind-side. Blind-sides must be executed with precision and it's far too early kids. Patience is a virtue.
Anyhow, patience is something lacking around these parts.
In the past week I have said the words "TWO is kicking my butt" about a zillion times. Give or take a billion. But seriously, that somewhat romantic but small number is making me curl up all fetal-like and cry.
I'm not sure how such a small number, encased in such a teeny-tiny armoured shell can be such a butt kicker but it is. And it is successfully bringing down two
It has to be the number TWO that has possessed our child. TWO is mind numbing, yet we are in awe of it's super powers.
Our little lady could not possibly be behaving like every single freakin' event and action in the world is in exact opposition of her, which only can be corrected with brain-piercing screams, throwing of all objects not nailed down in close proximity, and general feral-behaviour. It must be TWO!
Yet thirty-odd seconds after the last scream has burrowed into my brain and the last glass has broken in the cupboard, we have our child back.
She is singing, butterflies flit around her head, small woodland creatures gather at her feet, everything is soft-lit, and all is right in the world. It usually happens right before (or immediately after) I snap and therefore this sudden switch in toddler-personality makes my reaction seem over-dramatic.
Yes, it's got to be me that's being over-dramatic.
Hell no, these days the Oscar definitely goes to Bumper for best non-approved stunts, best over-dramatic acting, and least original screenplay.
Motherbumper gives up. TWO wins.
Oh I know, you've heard or even experience this all before and it will pass. And something else will hijack my child and I will be begging TWO to come back in the most pathetic ways possible [post pending - approximate ETA: Bumper's 3rd birthday].
But the main reason that I record these days - these feelings of absolute defeat without the option to give-up - the main reason I write these thoughts down is for future reference.
I know that one day in the future 16 year old Bumper will bring home a tattooed, pierced, motorcycle-riding, odd-smelling boy of undetermined age and tells us "I will be home when I'm home, and NO! I will not tell you where I am going, and OMG, butt-out MOM".
Yes, I pretend that my child will say "butt-out" when she's a teenager, yet I am fully aware that my delusion of her escaping 'yar "curse of the potty-mouth" is slim to none.
Anyhow, when she brings this absolute winner of a (gag) boyfriend home: I will look back at TWO and I will laugh.
This post will be re-read and then I will uncork another bottle of tequila. And while balancing the salt shaker in the crook of my arm and grasping lemon slices with my free hand, I will remind myself that I once thought TWO was the hard days. Resume fetal position.