FOUR is a new kind of terrible. Histrionics, assurances, confidence, and distain: in adult+ size proportions. I was cocky about mothering a baby, and a one, a two, and a three year old. I really thought I was good. WORLD'S BEST MOM, I thought. Like an asshole. Because I didn't make it very far. 4, turns out, really sucks.
The other day this particular 4yo I know was constipated. Here is an actual quote in which she says to me: "I'm ASSUMING you think this is a big deal... Trust me on this, I'm never gonna have to poop. I'll be fine mom, I'm fine. Trust me on this. I DON'T need to poop."
"Trust me mom! I'll be fine if I never poop. I'm assuming you don't know that, but I'll be fine!"
TRUST and ASSUME, her newest concepts.
Of course, I bent her in half like an angry steel rod, forcing her concave to sit on the MUTHRFECKG TOILT. Battle of wills ENSUES. OF COURSE, I lose. My face is scratched. She's pinched off. Tears, recriminations, denouncements... fists even, follow. SLAM.
"Whew, she says, (I hear her through the bedroom door) "glad that's over!"
Being evil as fuck -- as I am -- I waited... and an hour after she fell into the deepest redemptive sleep-state possible I puppet-walked her into the bathroom where she defenselessly passed a medieval mace of a turd-head with only a somnolent whimpering resistance. TAKE THAT!
Meanwhile, I'm still searching Pandora for a hip-hop mama song.
SOMEBODY WRITE ME AN ANTHEM THAT'S GOT A GOOD BEAT.
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