For a long time, I had only one arch nemesis. He’s actually one of my neighbors. We don’t talk to one another. In fact, we ignore each other, except for the occasional growl and stare game we participate in when the mood’s just right. Sadly, this nemesis has decided to move away and I was at a loss. Who could I plot against now?
I didn’t have to look very far for someone to fill the role of my new arch nemesis. Actually, she lives with me…
What was once, not-so long ago, a sweet, sweet little baby that laughed and slept all day, has now turned into a bossy, complaining, crying, demanding, loud and screaming toddler with a penchant for biting you when you think she’s about to give you a kiss.
This is what living with Mussolini must’ve been like.
Good luck trying to go pee. I leave her sight for just a second and the little tyrant grabs my legs, screaming. I made the mistake of locking the bathroom door once. BIG MISTAKE. She stuffed her chubby little hands and feet under the door, as if she could reach me. I laughed a little, thinking how cute this was. She must’ve heard me because the next thing I knew, she was banging on the door with my hair brush. When I still didn’t emerge from the bathroom, she took all the toilet paper she could find in the linen closet and started tearing the paper and stuffing her destruction under the door. Doesn’t she listen to Smokey the Bear? These are fire hazards, lady!
She used to sit like a little doll in her stroller just a few months ago. Now, it’s another story. She straightens her legs and finds every combination possible to avoid sitting down. After several exhaustive minutes, she’s finally buckled in and I raise a fist in celebration. She glares at me and five seconds later, she has escaped the tricky seatbelt contraption. It’s like Houdini has been resurrected. What the fuck?
Eating with this toddler is such a joy.
Every single vegetable I place in front of her either ends up on the floor where Prince the dog will vacuum it up, only to stare at me with his seriously-this-doesn’t-even-taste-good look or she spits it out, clamps her eyes shuts and releases a terrifying scream that only Banshee of the X-Men would love.
I can’t eat my meals around her. She won’t eat anything off her plate, but she sees me eating and decides my food is so much better than hers. The toddler scrambles up into my lap and rudely slaps her hand on to my food and barbarically stuffs it into her mouth. She claps and laughs as she looks at me as if to say you can’t get away from me – go eat the crap up you put on my plate.
Napping is an activity in torture. I can tell she’s sleepy, but when I carry her to the bed, she locks her little legs around me and shakes her head. Do toddlers have some sort of super human strength they acquired from breast milk or something? Jesus. No matter what I do, I can’t release her legs until she decides she wants to. When I set her down, we engage in a battle of wills, a fucked-up version of a fencing match: we attack and parry, moving back and forth on the bed like two drunken opponents. I’m so exhausted from all this activity, I eventually fall asleep while the baby plays Fruit Ninja on my phone.
Toddler: 500, Mommy: -100.
Carl wants us to go on a trip. With the baby. On a plane. There is not enough Xanax for that trip.