Three + One

Both of my kids are at ages that make me wish I could take a bath in vodka and benzodiazepines. Oh and fudge.

They're beautiful, really. I know it's fleeting and I will miss it when it's gone. And intermingled with these difficult ages are wonderful, awesome moments, like Sawyer learning to point to pictures in his book and say "puppup! oof! oof!" or Charlotte telling me she's going to be President so she can be friends with Barbie Thumbelina.

But most of the time I find myself caught between two children who I'm sure are really evil gnomes sent from some other world to see if they can kill me with sheer whining and mental torture.

Three-year olds are basically miniature crack-addicted bi-polar schizophrenics without the actual diagnosis. A conversation with my daughter can go something like this:

"Charlotte, do you want Cheerios for breakfast?"

"No, Momma. I want Trix. I loooooooove them."

"I know you do and Momma was a giant dillhole for buying them and letting you taste them. You cannot have Trix for breakfast, only as a snack, okay? Do you want eggs?"

"No, I want Trix."

"You cannot have Trix. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Momma. I love you anyway."

"I love you too. Now what do you want for breakfast?"

"Trix."

"You CANNOT have Trix."

"I'm going to eat your soul and chew it up, rip off your head, and then spit it down your throat, you stupid evil witch of a mother," and then her head spins around and green stuff comes out, and Gremlins come at me from underground caves and then I die.

Sawyer, on the other hand, is stuck in this stage where he desperately wants to walk and yet is not quite ready or balanced enough to let go and take a step. So he has this little push-walker thing that he loves. He gets behind it, like a little shopping cart, squeals with glee and starts pushing himself. He's the happiest baby in the world.

Until he hits a wall.

Or a door. Or the couch. It's like a Dead End. And bless his little blond head, he just doesn't get that he really isn't being sucked in to some evil vortex of doom that is stopping his walker, and all he needs to do is turn and keep pushing. So, he screams. Until someone walks over to him and moves his cart.

Imagine how often we have to do that in a tiny house.

"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Squee!!!" Translation: This is the BEST toy ever!

"AAHHHHHH! EHHHH, EHHHH, SIOJTRHOVNDOINNOPAKDEWM," Translation: "Oh for fuck's sake, another wall! HELP ME! The WALL IS GOING TO EAT MY PRETTY BABY FACE!"