Medicated. For your protection.

That's what should go on my superMommy shirt. You know, the one that's totally impervious to all child fluids, all household tasks, and cannot be ripped by a speeding lego hurled. Just kidding. Legos aren't hurled in this house. When she gets mad, or frustrated, or just plain unhappy with me, she turns around and bangs her head repeatedly against something hard. This worries me a bit. At this stage, at this developmental point- should she still be banging her head? Shouldn't she be working on developing words? On standing on her own?

She won't as long as I will cave in and treat her like the delicate little preemie she used to be. I have to get it through my head that she's a toddler now. They're very hard to break.

Into every mom's life some crap must fall. If we're lucky it will fall straight into a properly fitted disposable diaper. A wipe, and a clean diaper, and the sun smiles once again on the residents of this humble home. Unfortunately this is metaphorical crap, and it's not in the diaper. It's messy, and it makes me want to crawl under a rock and close my eyes and wait for the world to end.

This, too, shall pass. I know it will. I know it will go away and leave me alone. There will come a time when I can get out of bed in the morning and leave the house willingly without having a checklist of things that must be done before I can come back home again.

In the meantime... would anyone like to crawl into a pillow fort with me? We can make s'mores and tell fairy stories.