Let me share my recent string of FIVE avoidable life experiences, with the hope of making your journey less–how shall I say this–burdensome.
You’re welcome. 😉
ONE. One poorly considered Christmas gift for your child. That’s all it takes to ruin your life. Ours came in the form of a red, shiny Radio Flyer push tricycle that cannot be used outdoors at this time due to frigid temperatures. All day, every day, I push my vivacious young child around the house. And when I’m not bumping into furniture or our freshly painted walls, my toddler follows me around, incessantly chanting bike. Bike. Bike? Bike. Bike!
TWO. Two doses of steroid should automatically be prescribed for Croup. One for toddler. One for ma. Because otherwise your toddler warps into this hyperactive, nap-adverse, screaming, psycho troll that will make you rethink your future fertility endeavors and maybe life in general.
You deserve Prednisone too. You’re worth it, ma.
You’re permitted to be a hyperactive psycho troll alongside that toddler.
So if anybody tries to hand you a single dose of Prednisone in a cute little red bottle like the foregoing, RUN. Run with everything that is in you.
THREE. Three strikes before traumatizing time-out is implemented. Traumatizing for both toddler and mama.
My Drew is the Enforcer of the Jr. Enforcer in our home. I’m the Jr. Enforcer because I loathe discipline and punishment and probably keep Andy on too long of leash. So when I’ve repeatedly threatened punishment with no sign of behavioral correction, I get a very stern look from Drew, holding me accountable on fulfilling my threats.
Andy and I hate time-out.
He cries. I cry. We cry.
Doesn’t the mere sight of this sad and lonely time-out chair make you want to cry too?
FOUR. Four wheels on the stupid, plastic, doorless, yellow kid car attached to the front of my grocery cart that only a spawn who hates his parents would design. Contrary to popular belief, the plastic car does not stop on a dime, and I have unfortunately nudged justifiably angry, elderly men with the car.
Deep breath. Awkward grimace. Profuse apologies.
FIVE. Five days since I last washed my hair.
Ode to you, dry shampoo. You are the one for me, although my hair color transforms daily as the oil and powder compound.
If you don’t live with dry shampoo, are you really living?
From a friend to a friend, please, please learn from me.