My precious golden-hair bundle of cuteness proclaimed tonight, without any formal warning, that she is now fucking nocturnal. Time after time, she called frantically to be saved from her padded, sheep-themed torture-box of a crib.
Picture me- Patient, loving- the type of mystical fucking softness that only a mother can conjure. I’m like the mother on a tylenol commercial, touching her face gently, pushing her blond curls aside. Does she have a fever? Maybe she’s thirsty? I held my writhing, kicking child thoughtfully and sang to her with vacant eyes as she bit holes into my arm.
CUE TO FIVE FUCKING HOURS LATER. She’s not sick. She’s just an asshole.
Don’t think a 22 month old can be an asshole? In the TWO seconds I walked away to play “Friendship Is Fucking Magic My Little Ponies” for the 32 time tonight, she was gone. I found her wrapped up in a toilet mat, eating an entire JAR of rainbow sprinkles.
Did I mention this is not my house? These are not my sprinkles. That is someone elses toilet mat. The entire tube of fuschia lipstick she ate, was also not mine. Fortunately, I can color match for a replacement for my friend, as my child used it to make her sofa and eggshell walls “pretty”. Fuck this, it’s not pretty, and you know it. Panic begins to set in when I realize in horror, she may have not actually eaten the entire tube of lipstick- leaving me wondering in horror where the rest could be. What if it’s under a rug somewhere… or melting in my friends laptop? My friends were kind (read: stupid) enough to let us sleepover tonight, and my beautiful child looks like this and smells faintly of urine.