Tragic mess of a child

Lyla was not exactly a pocketful of sunshine this evening. I picked her up at daycare, and the instant I tried to stuff her into her jacket I could tell it would be an early bedtime. The jacket is the barometer for all things mood-related, you see. If Lyla cheerfully stands still and babbles about Elmo, then you have a delightful evening of frivolity in store. But if she fake-cries and stamps her feet at jacket time, then, well, it's been nice knowing you.

Julie got home just after we pulled into the driveway.

"Mih," Lyla said when we got inside. "Mih. Mih. Mih."

"Do you want some milk, Lyla?" Julie replied.

"MIH! MIH!"

"Well let's go to the kitchen and get you some milk."

Feet stamping. I think Lyla expected that Mama would immediately produce a sippy cup. Or a boob. "MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIH! WAAAAAAAAAH!"


After some coaxing, Lyla dragged her feet into the kitchen.



I microwaved some chicken nuggets and cut up some cheese. No use trying to feed vegetables to this tragic mess of a child.

While stuffing her face, Lyla shat her pants ferociously. I immediately placed my index finger upon my nose. "Nose goes!"

"No way," Julie said.

"I nose-goesed it! Done! It's sacred. You can't un-nose-goes something."

She looked at the clock. "It's 5:45. Think we can get her in bed by 6:00?"

"It's worth a shot."

"You wanna tag-team this som'bitch?"

"You're doing the diaper. Nose goes."

"Fine."

We are terrible parents.