Up until babies become preschoolers, the fact that they are male or female makes little difference. Boy or girl, it’s all the same — they’re all enormous pains in the ass. It’s not until they reach the age of three or thereabouts that the differences start to become apparent.

For the longest time, Nora didn’t have hair. When mothers were lovingly clipping barrettes and tying bows in their little girls’ hair, I was wondering if I was going to have to invest in wigs for my bald kid. It didn’t help that I dressed her in pants and t-shirts, so that unless I pasted a bow to her scalp, people couldn’t tell what the hell she was. MOST of the time, people thought she was a boy.

Even when she was decked out in pink. And wearing princess shit. People must have thought I was trying to raise a fairy. Either that or they’re fucking blind.

Whatever. I didn’t really care, since hell, I’m a feminist, and who wants a girly-girl anyway?

Shortly after Nora turned three, something happened. My bald-headed androgynous monkey who liked to eat paper grew hair, cheekbones, and an obsession with Sleeping Beauty. She became more loving, clever, and emotionally volatile. Nora became a girl.

She started coming home from school saying things like, “Boys are BAD!” and “Only girls can be ballerinas. Because boys are not nice.” I didn’t really know how to respond to these observations, and my natural inclination was to try and break down the gender barriers and reinforce equality (whatever the hell that means). So I would say, “No, boys are not bad.” (Yes they are). “Not all boys are mean.” (Yes they are). “Boys can take ballet too.” (SNORT! Choking on laughter).

As a side note, I found it interesting that Nora still calls Ava her “baby brother.” Every time I correct her, Nora looks at Ava’s crazy hair, her food-stained face, her saggy-ass diaper and says, “Oh.” As if she just can’t believe that this little pain in the ass of a sibling is female.

Recently I took the girls to the mall, which has a castle playland type deal (no, I don’t ever learn, and shut up. Just read the fucking post and stop judging me — I’ll save you the trouble: I SUCK). No tunnels on this thing, though. Nothing I could get my ass stuck in. Not unless I really tried, and come on, I’m not a moron. (Shut up). So we went to this germ-infested castle, Nora decked out in full ballerina gear, and as I followed Ava around (because she’s more likely to eat it), Nora made friends with this little boy, four years old, named Jordan. (I overheard his mom talking). This little boy was really cute, and for some reason, he took a liking to Nora. They played for a bit, and I got distracted. Next thing I knew, Nora was storming around the castle, her arms crossed, pouting. “Where IS HE?” She demanded of me. “Who?” I asked. “BOY!” She replied. “Where is THAT BOY?” Damn. Girl was mad. I looked around, and saw that, in typical male fashion, Jordan had found other boys to run around aimlessly with, doing whatever boys do that compel them to hit and kick things randomly. Nora spotted him at the same time I did, and unleashed her delicate ballerina fury on him. “BOY! COME HERE NOW!”she called loud enough for the entire fucking mall to hear.

Jordan, looking sheepish and confused, walked over to where Nora was standing. I couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, but I can tell you what I saw: Nora shaking an angry finger and Jordan looking bewildered, shrugging his shoulders. Nora then pointed to a bench and yelled, “SIT!” Jordan complied without a fuss, and Nora began to dance — she twirled unelegantly and held her still-pudgy arms above her head, mimicking a ballerina. Jordan watched, confused, and slightly interested. After a few seconds of this, Nora stopped and ordered, “CLAP!” upon which Jordan grinned and clapped for her. Nora then beamed, and took a deep bow.

The rest of the time we were there, Jordan followed Nora around like a loyal puppy.

Now, I’m not saying this is how grown men and women behave. Fuck it — yes I am. Totally. Come on! It’s hysterical. It’s EXACTLY how grown men and women behave. I could write The Rules: Preschool Style based on this single incident.

My little girls are going to grow up to be women, and I ain’t too worried about Nora.

And Ava? HA! That’s funny. As someone whose upper lip she nearly ripped off today, I can say with confidence that she may grow up to be a homicidal maniac. I’m not worried about men — I’m worried about society as a whole. I’m just sayin’.

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Perhaps my favorite thing about very young children is their utter and complete cluelessness — they have no sense of real embarrassment yet, of self-consciousness, of what society expects of them. Sure, they have a general sense of right and wrong, of what Mommy and Daddy want and don’t want from them… Sort of. But they don’t get why, and generally don’t care.

So it’s not unusual for a preschooler to randomly grab or talk about her privates, her potty needs, etc. Before I had kids of my own, I found this mildly terrifying. When I was a teenager, a cousin of mine asked his 3-year-old son why his hand was in his pants. The boy told his father coolly, “I’m playing with my pee-pee.” There were no fewer than sixteen people watching this exchange, and not one of them could keep a straight face, least of all me. Gotta love the kid’s honesty.

Well, it was funny when it wasn’t MY kid, of course. Luckily, I haven’t had quite as bad an experience, and I think it’s because I have girls. I could be wrong about that, and if you have boys and disagree, then shit, I’m sorry. I’m just guessing. Relax. Go have a glass of wine and a Xanax. (That, by the way, is my cure for everything. And if it kills you, you didn’t hear it from me. I’m not a fucking doctor.)

So I do this thing with my girls when they’re bare-assed naked — I playfully tap their little butts and go “TUSHIE! TUSHIETUSHIETUSHIETUSHIE!” Before you call CPS, let me be clear: It’s a TAP, not a slap. And they think it’s hilarious, to the point where they stick their little bottoms out for me to tap and then run around giggling when I try to. It’s sort of a game that takes place at bath time, and it started because I found their little bare bottoms so irresistibly cute. Come on, can you blame me? Tell me baby tushies aren’t cute, goddammit. So a couple weeks ago Ava and Nora were in the bathtub together, and Nora lay on her stomach in the water, crowding Ava into a corner, which Ava did not like. She fussed a bit, then stopped when she realized Nora’s bottom was sticking out of the water directly in front of her. Ava squealed with delight and cried, “TUSHIE! TUSHIETUSHIETUSHIETUSHIE!” and proceeded to smack Nora’s butt with her chubby little hand.

Who doesn’t love baby tushies? Now if these were adult tushies, we’d be grossed out. Photo by JoshuaBloom via Flickr.

Twenty-month-olds don’t understand the concept “gentle.” When they hit, they HIT. So this is what the episode sounded like: SMACK! SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAA! Nora was sobbing and rubbing her bottom, which, by the way, bore Ava’s handprints.

Then, a couple days ago, Nora was standing in front of Ava, once again naked, and both girls were waiting to get into the tub. Ava once again was face to face (cheek?) with Nora’s bottom, but this time she knew she’d get into trouble if she played the “Tushie” game. So instead, she stuck her finger in Nora’s butt crack. Nora jumped and laughed, and had I not intervened, what would have followed would have been a game entitled “Stick Your Finger In Your Sister’s Butt Crack and Make Her Giggle.”

A part of me felt sad, destroying this sense of innocent fun. No, no, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want them sticking their fingers in random strangers’ butt cracks, ok? But taboos are taught, society’s behaviors are learned, and we TEACH our kids to be embarrassed by certain things, to be ashamed of others. And that period in life before those things are absorbed into those little brains is so fleeting and sweet.

Now for the not-so-sweet. (Not that sticking your finger in anyone’s butt crack, let alone your own, is sweet, per se, but… Well, you’ll see what I mean.) Tonight I was getting out of the shower (cue porn music — and incidentally, there is ALWAYS porn music playing when I am in, and getting out of, the shower), when Nora walked in with a playful grin on her face and a hand hidden behind her back.

“Mamaaaaaa,” she sang, “Guess whaaaaaaat!”

Toweling myself off (porn music gets louder), I asked tiredly — er, sexily (is that a word?), “What?”

Nora was silent for a few seconds longer, I guess building the suspense or something, and then whipped her hand out to me, her forefinger extended. “I GOT POOP ON MY FINGER!”

(Porn music screeches to a halt).

My internal dialogue was as follows: Yep. That’s poop, alright. Now, don’t panic. But don’t let her touch you. Grab her by the elbow and hold her finger in the sink, under running water. Wait, not YOUR sink, TH’s sink. Awesome. Damn, some of it isn’t coming off. Forget it, I’m not touching that shit. Explain to Nora how to do it, and lend her a bar of soap you will never, ever use again. That’s right, LOTS of bubbles, kid…Keep scrubbing… Where’s my hand sanitizer?

I have officially taught my daughter to be petrified of poop. I think I can call it a day.

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There is no place on earth as disgusting, bacteria and virus-infested, or generally filthy as McDonald PlayPlace.

Trust me on this.

I am fairly certain that a public toilet seat is cleaner. I am fairly certain that actually dunking your child in a public toilet is a better idea than allowing them to play at the PlayPlace.

That being said, I go there all the time.

Look, it’s not my fault. Nora actually wakes up asking for it. And it’s fairly convenient, since 1) it’s near my house, 2) I can feed my children in the same place with highly-processed chicken and pure lard, 3) technically my fat ass doesn’t have to leave the chair, since everything is contained in a small area, and 4) technically, once Ava is a bit older, I’ll be able to take my laptop and do something productive for 30 minutes (or just take advantage of the free Wi-Fi and surf for porn. Er, I mean the latest toy recall. Riiiiiiight).

Well, about the “Ava getting older” part. It’s kind of key, as I discovered today.

I should have learned my lesson the time Ava was bopping around the play contraption (which consists of tunnels and slides and tons of nooks and crannies) and saw a half-eaten chicken nugget lying UNDER the bottom platform. Covered in dust and dirt and feces and God knows what else. “Oooooooh! Yummy!” she cried, and before I could throw myself at her (imagine this in slow motion, with me screaming “Nooooooooooooooooooo!”) she had put it in her mouth.

I still shudder thinking about it.

But I’m a persistent fucker. I still took them there, because I was convinced that sooner or later, everything would work out, just like the gym, and it would become a pleasant experience, despite the diseases we would all catch.

Today may be the last I go there until Ava is five — at a minimum.

So normally I get Ava onto the second platform and let her just kind of wander back and forth while I watch her, since she’s too little to climb the whole thing by herself. She piddles around and squeals as the older kids rush past her, and she generally enjoys pressing her face against the mesh walls, peering down at me and calling, “Mamaaaaaaaa! Hiiiiiiiiiiii!”

But not today. No, my intrepid little one-and-a-half-year-old decided that today she was going to climb to the top, and find out where her sister goes that seems to bring her so much joy. As she crawled her way through a tunnel and to the side I could not see, my heart started to sink. I could see where this situation was headed, and it involved me climbing into the playmathingie myself. I called her name repeatedly to no avail — Ava was going where no toddler had (purposefully) gone before. And as I called, debating as to whether my child was smart enough, with the help of her sister, to find her way down one of the many slides, I heard something that sounded all too much like “POW! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The scream Ava emitted was nothing short of agony. Let me tell you, folks, you have never seen a grown woman climb into a McDonald PlayLand playscape as fast as I did. I wiggled my ass through those tunnels, following the sounds of my screeching child. (Who the fuck invented this fucking maze? Which tunnel do I go in, for God’s sake? The red one? No, the blue one… Fuck! My ass is stuck in the green tunnel!) I finally made it to the end, only to find Ava bleeding from her lower lip. Apparently, one of the older kids was hanging from whatever-the-fuck-that-is (is that a steering wheel?) and accidentally kicked Ava in the mouth.

Using my sleeve to dab at her lip, I wondered (between pants) how I was going to get myself and my bleeding child down. (Why isn’t there a slide on this end? And which tunnel is the shortest way back? MOTHER. FUCKER.) Luckily, I had Nora to help out. “Follow me, Mama!” she said heroically, leading the way down the blue tunnel.

FYI, the blue tunnel is not the shortest way back. It’s actually the longest. I think Nora thought it would be fun.

With Ava screaming bloody murder, I wrapped one arm around her (hopefully it wasn’t her neck) and started inching BACKWARDS through the tunnel. I now believe that at least ONE circle of hell is a playscape that is too small for the offender’s ass. We finally made it to a slide, and with Ava flailing about, I managed to twist around, plop her on my lap and skid my way down to terra firma. (Can you hear the angels singing?) It was only eleven in the morning and my day was DONE. Ready for bed. Seriously.

The funny thing is that the parents who were sitting (on their fat, lazy asses) in the room failed to notice that anything odd was going on. They were reading their papers, playing with their phones, completely oblivious to the fact that 1) a kid had been kicked in the face or 2) one of their own was stuck in the playscape. It is possible they thought I had everything under control, I suppose.

Ha. When have I EVER had anything in my life under control?

Remember, people, embrace the chaos. It’s the only way you won’t end up a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

Oh my God, I’m hilarious. Going to drink now.

Looking at it makes my ass twitch.

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Like the time Nora said to me, “Mommy, I love you, because, you know, you’re not so old.”

Kay. Thanks?

Or the time I was getting dressed and Nora was eying my naked chest with interest. (FYI, naked bodies invite a host of hilarious, offensive, and often entertaining comments from preschoolers. Just be prepared to have your ego beaten into a pulp. And remember that they are usually eye-level with your crotch, so keep that shit covered.) After watching me remove my bra, Nora asked, “Mommy, are those your little boobies?”

LITTLE? Well, fuck. At least they’re bigger than hers.

My friend “Claire” tells a similar story that had me rolling on the ground with laughter. Her daughter “Anna” was watching Claire get dressed one day and said with a smile, “Mommy, I hope I have a big belly like you someday.”

Apparently, preschoolers’ sense of beauty is inspired by the fertility goddesses of ancient times.

She is HOT. Except for the hairdo. And the fact that she has no face. Photo by mharrsch via Flickr.

If only ours was too, goddammit.

Today was classic. I was driving back from my parents house which is three and a half hours away (ROAD TRIP!) and we had to stop to tinkle. For those of you who don’t have kids, “tinkle” = “pee-pee.” So anyways, we stopped at a gas station and as I carried Ava into the bathroom stall, Nora said, “It smells like Nana in here!”

“Nana” is what the girls call my mother. I found this so utterly hilarious that I called my mom while standing in the stall.

ME: “Hey, mom? We’re here in Podunk, Texas, in a gas station bathroom, and Nora thinks it smells like you in here.”

My Mom: “Oh my God. Are you serious?”

ME: (snorting) “Yeah.”

My Mom: “What does it smell like in there?”

ME: “What does it smell like? It smells like ass, mom. Ass.”

Nora: “ASS! HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Ava: (sticking her hand in the tampon mailbox) “E-I-E-I-O!” (Ava is currently into “Old MacDonald.” It’s all she ever says these days — along with “mine” and “no.”)

Then there are the times Nora gets in trouble for doing something she knew she shouldn’t have been doing — oh, say, wrapping Ava in an entire roll of toilet paper — and when confronted with my wrath, can think of nothing better than to tell the truth.

ME: “Nora, WHY did you do that???”

Nora: “Because it was fun.”

Well, there you go. And I ignore stop signs because it’s fun.

Like mother like daughter.

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Relax. It’s Children’s Benadryl. God, I love that shit.

Anyone who has a three-year-old will agree with me, I promise. Because bedtime has become a horrible, terrible, drawn-out nightmare that won’t end, even when I go to bed myself. I have never seen a human being fight sleep so vehemently, so desperately. It’s one of God’s little jokes: Just when you get to an age where sleep is this heavenly escape from the daily grind, you have a baby. And that baby sleeps poorly at first, then really well, then… becomes a three-year-old, this demonic, sleepless, talking thing that won’t shut up. Ever. I’ve had to shut the door while Nora was mid-sentence, talking about every single thing she has ever learned in her short life. It’s constant, nonsensical, and will drive you mad if you listen to it long enough.

During the day, I think Nora’s motor mouth is cute. It’s adorable. Most of the time. Her voice is high-pitched and chipmunk-like, as is her cherubic face. It only really gets to me when it cuts into my downtime. If she is still blabbing past eight at night, I stop thinking it’s cute. Because that is an almost-solid 13 hours of hearing about ballerinas, swimming pools, hearts, butterflies, princesses, unicorns and Wow Wow Wubbzy.

And THEN begins the struggle to keep Nora in bed long enough to fall asleep. Every five minutes, she’s calling. “Mommy, I need to go potty.” (She doesn’t). “Mommy, I need my bunny. The one with the pink nose.” (She knows damn well we haven’t seen that thing in months).

“Mommy, I need socks, my feet are cold.”

“Mommy, my fan isn’t on.”

“Mommy, I’m thirsty. And hungry.”

“Mommy, there’s a bat in my room with red eyes.” (This one is particularly hard to deal with, because I’ve watched too many horror flicks and am far too impressionable. What if there IS a bat with red eyes in there? Fuck, I’m sleeping with the lights on).

And God forbid TH and I go to bed before she’s asleep. She sees that living room light go off and goes nuts. And wakes up Ava. And then we’re all fucked.

So night after night, we increasingly become overtired, because no one is sleeping, not me, not Nora, not TH. (I should give TH major props here, because he is the one who deals with Nora in the middle of the night. TH, you are an amazing father. And there’s no punch line… You’re just an amazing father).

Enter Baby Ambien. I was at the end of my rope, and so I called Nora’s pediatrician, who is this hip, young mom herself, and begged her to help me. She told me to buy some Children’s Benadryl and give it to Nora for a few nights, until she got caught up on her sleep. I didn’t think it would work. The first night, I gave her the appropriate dose and tucked her in as she rambled on and on and on about her friends, her favorite TV shows, what she was going to say tomorrow… And then started to slur her words, her eyelids slowly dragging shut. I watched, a big smile on my face and waving bye-bye, as she tried to fight off the effects of the Benadryl… to no avail. She was in La-La Land in under ten minutes.

And slept through the whole night.

Oh, shit.

So now, my question is this: how many is “a few” nights? Are we talking like five days? Two weeks? Until she’s ten?

I have to talk myself out of giving her the Bendryl 90% of the time. Because it truly is amazing: No Benadryl, up until way past MY bedtime and every two hours until morning, or Yes Benadryl, down at eight and asleep until seven – at a minimum.

I am a terrible person that I even think about knocking my kid out with drugs every night, I know. But seriously. Spend a week with Nora and you’ll be ready to give her bourbon, if that’s what it takes.

Fine: Rum. Yes, I’m obsessed with pirates, and would give her rum. Now shut up.

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And don't doubt for a second that she doesn't take every marble I lose and put it her mouth. My marbles, as I lose them, become choking hazards, therefore causing me to lose more marbles. Are you seeing the problem here?

Ava is at a delightfully horrific age: 18 months. Only 18 short months of life, and already she's learned, all too well, how to get what she wants. The fact that she is a second child, and a second girl to boot, well… That just adds fuel to the fire. She's got to be sassier, louder, and more obnoxious than her sister to ensure she gets noticed.

She is succeeding. I have never, ever witnessed a child throw as many public tantrums, scream as loudly, or shove as brutally. Ava does not fuck around — get out of her way, dudes, or your ass is hers. The infuriating part is how goddamned CUTE she is. Yes, I know I'm her mother and I am biased, but seriously, she's adorable (looking). She smiles a lot, and has these dimples that will suck you in like black holes. She's got these enormous blue eyes with long eyelashes, a cute little button nose, and a head of light brown curls. Trust me, meet Ava and you will not emerge unscathed — she will whip you.

So. The other day was a particularly crazy one: Playdate, three-year-olds fighting over princess dresses, toys and food everywhere, and darling Ava, who just wanted someone to notice that she was there. When she realized that smacking the older kids with their princess wands wasn't working, she took an entirely different approach. She took this snow globe that plays music (with a single push of a button) and dropped it in the toilet. While it was playing. I found her peering into the john, going "UH. OH!"

Uh-oh is right, especially considering Nora had gone in the potty and chosen not to flush the toilet. The snow globe was, miraculously, still playing, and the music was muffled and… downright fucking creepy. So I fished the urine-soaked snow globe from the toilet and threw it in the sink, where it continued to play a now very sad, very off-key, very disturbing version of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." And it wouldn't stop playing. Pushing the button did nothing. And when, after a particularly macabre version of "Jingle Bells," I tried to take the batteries out of the piece of shit, I found that they were screwed in, and I'd have to whip out the toolbox to get the fucking thing to shut up. Considering I was in the middle of "hosting" (ha!) a playdate, I just decided to let it run itself down.

Seriously, no one will ever want to come over again. This may actually be a good thing, since I have no furniture and generally suck at playing hostess.

Do you know, the snow globe played for SEVERAL MORE HOURS. If my home wasn't a madhouse before, it certainly became one with the sound of screaming children and super-eerie Christmas music in the background. Background? I mean foreground. Shit.

Why isn't anything else I own built like a fucking Home Depot snow globe? I accidentally drop my car keys in a puddle of water and the remote stops working instantly. What the hell?

Ava, back before she was mobile, had an attitude, and lady-with-twenty-cats crazy hair. I never thought I would miss those days…

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Actually, now it's full of toys, garbage, and children who are far too clever and devious for their mother's good. No clowns, thank God. That would really be the icing on the cake, if I had to deal with evil clowns on top of everything else. I'd really need some heavy meds — and serious weapons — then.

So clowns aside, this place really does teeter on being an insane asylum on most days. From the moment they wake up, my girls make it their mission to destroy any sense of order or sanity in our home. Nora even tells Ava, "Come on, Ava! We have work to do!" I think she picked that phrase up from Wonder Pets (if you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself a lucky, lucky bitch or bastard), but it is so appropriate in context, I have to smile. The "work" my little hellions have to do is destroy, demolish, and then cackle cruelly as Mama frantically tries to undo the mess.

They take things out of drawers, cabinets, any sort of container, and seem to take particular joy in creating disorder where there was once order. It's not like they are taking specific things out to play with, they are just flinging shit over their shoulders as fast as they can possibly manage. God forbid they manage to reach a box of cereal or rice or flour in the pantry — if I don't catch them in the nick of time, it will be everywhere. Toilet paper rolls — holy shit, if I am so stupid as to leave a bathroom door open, Nora will unroll at breakneck speed and Ava will be mummified, only to eat her way out of her binding. Yes, that's right, Ava eats toilet paper. And she revels in it, making sure I see her tear off a piece and deliberately put it in her mouth. As if to say, "Watch this, Mom. I'm eating paper. Whatcha going to do about it? HUH?"

Nora, at three years old, is a bit more controllable, since she understands right from wrong, and that there will be consequences for her actions. (Am I a spanker, you ask? Hell, yes. I haven't had to do it yet, but I wouldn't hesitate if I thought it necessary). Nora has also developed a devious way of getting around punishment: She becomes immediately remorseful, saying, "Mama, I am so sorry! I am so, so SORRY!" And then she flashes those big blue peepers and stretches her arms out to me… Yeah, try and spank that, you black-hearted wench.

Ava, on the other hand, doesn't give two shits and a piss, and will wreak havoc at every opportunity. If her sister is in it with her, all the better. But if not, she can manage fairly well by herself. When I scold her, she has one response: She screams at the top of her lungs. No, not cry, SCREAM. Like an angry, defiant battle cry. And then she flashes her even BIGGER blue peepers at me and a fucking dimple, for God's sake…

I was such a GOOD kid. Where did I go wrong?

I blame TH's rotten genes. Better that than my mothering, right?

And now, a vintage ad, because it made me vomit a bit in my mouth:

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That, my friends, is a big question for a three-year-old. But since I know she means right this second, I answer, "Yes, baby, I am happy. You make me happy." And the goofy grins persist for a good several seconds… Until they do something to piss me off.

One of the cute things: No matter what they are eating — it could be pretzels, bread, a fucking rock, for God's sake — they manage to smear it around their mouths. I don't know about you, but I am amazed at this ability. I mean, how the fuck do you smear a PRETZEL around your mouth? There's nothing to smear. It's a pretzel. And yet, I promise you, there will be a brownish tinge around their mouths afterward. I really should watch more carefully to see how this evolves: How many times can you salivate on and rub a pretzel around your mouth before you actually get it IN your mouth? I should try this some day. Anyone want to join me in this experiment?

There are certain things, however, that are very Toddler Bizarre, and they make me want to impale myself on one of the gazillion princess wands we have lying around the living room. For instance, Nora will eat a cookie until there is only a tiny piece left, and then hand the crumb to me and say, "Mama, I'm finished." Um, no you're not. There's still this crumb left. For some Godforsaken reason, Nora will NOT eat that last crumb. Can anyone explain this to me? She does this with everything: sandwiches, bananas, cookies… WHY WON'T SHE EAT THE LAST TINY BIT?

Ava has entered the Terrible Two's (contrary to popular belief, this phase in Small Person development actually starts at around a year and lasts until the age of fifteen, thereabouts.) She throws tantrums — full body, fist-pounding, hair-pulling tantrums — but only if she is certain I can see her. If I leave the room, she stops trantruming, follows me, and then starts over. This would be cute if it wasn't, well, fucking irritating as shit. I swear, Ava has screamed more in the past couple months than she did the first year of her life put together.

I'm sure I'll come up with more stuff later. I'll keep you posted (HA! GET IT? POSTED? Yes? No? Maybe? Shut up?)

I need a No-Doz.

Photo by Brungrrl via Flickr.

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Just kidding. I think being a mom is hard, and no matter what you do, someone is going to rip you a new one. Really. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: So long as a child is loved, the rest is just details. They may not grow up to be completely balanced adults, but truth be told, I have yet to meet a completely balanced adult. Do they exist? I think it's an urban myth, this well-balanced adult bullshit. The more "well-balanced" an individual tries to look, the more fucked up they actually are, if you ask me.

Back to ripping moms a new one. Right. So I don't mean to talk shit about certain parenting styles, because in the end, we're all trying to do the best job we can and keep our kids out of therapy. I think we can all agree on that. BUT. There is this certain type of parent that is driving me batty, and I just want to grab her (or him), tie them down, and yell, "STOP! JUST STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY!"

The "hands-on" parent, or, the parent that won't let their kid do ANYTHING on their own.

You've seen them at Gymboree, at the park, on the playground, in the classroom: They hover over their kids, directing every move. "Don't touch that, don't do it that way, do it THIS way, you're doing it wrong, this is how you do it, be careful, watch what you're doing, no, nononononono! YES!"

When Nora was around two-ish, I took her to an art class. And there was this mom I was dying to taser. The kids were supposed to be making hand puppets out of paper bags, but considering they were TWO YEARS OLD and couldn't follow instructions to save their short lives, they were smearing glue everywhere, coloring out of lines, making a mess of the yarn and paint… This mom was apoplectic. She could not deal with the fact that her two-year-old didn't understand that she was making a puppet, and dear God, the yarn goes on the head, and no, don't put the glue THERE!

I have a bit more sympathy when it comes to safety, because I tend to go overboard with the "be careful's". But as TH points out, sometimes I need a fucking chill pill. He'll tell me, "It's OKAY if Ava falls trying to climb that little step, because she'll just fall a short distance and she won't hurt herself – badly." Of course, TH takes the concept to a whole new level, as he doesn't seem all that concerned if Ava crashes down two flights of stairs and gets a bloody nose.

But back to my point. I see these parents everywhere, doing these bizarre, over-bearing things that make me cringe. There's this mom whose twins are in Nora's class, and I swear to God: I get there in the morning, she's there instructing the teacher on what her kids can and can't do, eat, etc. I get there in the afternoon to pick her up, and she's there asking the teacher about her children's every move. I'm beginning to think she never really leaves, she just hovers at the window, watching.

There's this other mom, who drops her kids off at the gym childcare center often at the same time as me. She comes in with this long list of things her boys (who are both over the age of five) can and can't do. "Keep them away from this, make sure they don't do that, if they get thirsty please let them drink ONLY from the cups I brought, NOT from the water fountain…"

For real, lady? Is all of that necessary? I mean, you are going to work out for HOW LONG? And you're afraid that they'll climb the jungle gym and MAYBE enjoy themselves, or drink Houston tap water (a legit concern, I must admit), or… WHAT?

To these two women, I'd like to say: If you're really THAT worried about your kids, then don't send them to school or childcare at all. Just sit your over-protective asses at home and keep your eyes glued to your kids, to make sure they don't do anything you don't like. And then, when they turn thirteen and can't take your ass anymore, they'll rebel with a fury and leave you stunned, confused, and feeling betrayed by the children you so "lovingly" raised.

What do you gals think? Am I being a crazy bitch? Don't answer that – it's totally off topic…

She looks FUCKING TERRIFIED. I don’t blame her.

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I mean that Nora always wants to be a "princess," whatever the fuck that means, and throws a fit if, for some reason, she deems herself not worthy of the title.

For the record, I blame Disney. Seriously, folks, stop pushing the princess bullshit on little girls. Cinderella, Snow White, Ariel, Jasmine, Sleeping Beauty… And it's not like your daughter will ever go unscathed, regardless of how much you try and protect them from this crap. Even the modern, educational Nick Jr. has the princess undercurrent to its shows. Princesses are beautiful, wear fluffy gowns, are adored by everyone. And let's not forget: She gets Prince Charming. You know what I'd like to do to Prince Charming? Kick him in the balls. Oh wait, I can't do that, because HE DOESN'T EXIST. Not in the sense Disney would have you believe, anyways. (Yes, TH, you are my Prince Charming, calm the fuck down. You know what I'm trying to say here.)

I've always wanted to see what happened after the "happy ending." You know, once the honeymoon is over. Cinderella nags the shit out of PC, PC then has an affair with one the more slutty step-sisters. Cindy finds out, smashes the windshield of his carriage with a… er… golf club…

Back to what I was saying. Nora is convinced that if she isn't wearing a dress (preferably a pink one), then she is not a princess. Tantrum ensues. If her dress has long sleeves (because it's fucking freezing outside), she pushes them up over her elbows, because if they are not pushed up, she is not a princess. Tantrum ensues. If her hair is in a ponytail, she is not a princess. If I don't let her spritz my perfume on (continually until she's suffocating me), she's not a princess.

Tantrum. Fucking. Ensues.

So over Thanksgiving my mom (aka Nana) got Nora a cute little festive outfit of red turtleneck and striped pants. She was fine wearing the turtleneck (so long as the sleeves were pushed up) but refused to wear the pants. When I insisted she put them on, because the entire family was there and a three-year-old running around in panties is, in my opinion, inappropriate, she began bawling, "But I'm NOT A PRINCESS!"

To which I shouted, "You can be a princess EVEN IF YOU KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!"

Which reminded me of the time she wouldn't even keep her panties on, because they were blue, not pink, and I had to tell her, "Good girls keep their panties on."

*Snicker.*

Please. JUST STOP. Photo by Armadillo444 via Flickr.

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