I realized tonight as I sweated and tried not to curse that hell on earth was currently cruising in the shape of a Volvo wagon down West Broad Street.  Inside the car, trapped within the heated panes of glass, was Damien the Screaming 3 Year Old, the 666 on her scalp pulsing and throbbing as she screamed in increasingly loud and frantic bursts, followed by the usual chantings of “HOLD ME HOLD HOLD HOLD ME MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY . . . AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I had already had a long day that I began early this morning in an effort to learn something new.  I attended the Legal Marketing Association monthly meeting in Norfolk with Jennifer - the speaker was amazing and validated all the things we’ve been trying to teach our clients for the last few years.  I did indeed learn a lot today, including how far behind I am in my reading and exposure to new thoughts and ideas.  Side note - remember the days of college when you basically spent your days exposing your brain to new ideas and ways of thinking?  Yeah, those were the days.  That was around the last time I felt really intelligent, like I had something to say, and would have been an interesting person to converse with.  These days, I am a fount of information on lactation, marketing for professionals, and potty training.  How the mighty fall.  But I do digress . . .

Jennifer had a difficult morning and as she recounted life with children and a career, I realized how amazing it is that all of us mommy-folk balance an amazing amount of shite on our plates.  We really do.  Stay at home, working, whatever - it’s all a lot to manage. Seems like there should be more moments of insanity or nervous breakdowns, but most of my friends are doing just fine.  Some of them even make it look easy.

I called Mike from the girls’ preschool with the brilliant idea to meet him for dinner. I was tired, hungry, really hot (I REALLY DESPISE RICHMOND IN THE SUMMER - the all-mighty creator obviously had a bug up his butt or some Southerner really pissed him off, because the humidity and oppressive heat here really isn’t necessary), and just needing a break from going home to look at the mess we are living with.  A side note again:  seems like every time I try to eat out with Mike and the girlz, chaos ensues, and Mike glares at me from across the table, occasionally muttering “Wow.  This is SO MUCH FUN. I LOVE having dinner with the girls.”  Me, the eternal optimist, thinks everything will be fine. 

Tonight was the usual - dinner with the girls, one always crabby, the other not.  Tonight Arden was having hissy fits because she wanted to do EVERYTHING herself (I’m using a lot of capital letters, but it was that kind of EVENING).  Feed herself, drink her own milk, everything.  That’s great, but she really doesn’t have the whole utensil-scraping-food-into-the-mouth thing downpat, and would get really hyper when she couldn’t shovel the food in fast enough.  Temper tantrums ensued, followed by a lot of eye-rolling and sighing from Mike, and me wanting to put my ever-optimistic head down on the table and just give up . . . relegate ourselves to a life of dinners at home where the dog can lick up the mess from the floor. 

Lily was pretty good except for using the booth as a trampoline and talking in a very loud, very un-indoor voice, and telling me that the word Rainbow started with an “s” instead of “r”.  I really hate those conversations.  She asks me to help her with the alphabet, which I do, and then she argues incessantly with me about how wrong I am.  Okay WHATEVER.  FINE.  You win.  Just stop talking to me. 

The real fun began when we left the restaurant.  Arden went with Mike in the “red car” and Lily came with me, as usual.  She asked me for her stuffed ducky, which I dutifully handed her.  I got in the car, started the engine, and she asked me for the “other ducky” (Arden has one too).  I looked briefly for it while holding up traffic in the parking lot, couldn’t find it, and told her I’d look when I got home.  That was all it took.  Damien took over Lily’s body and the screaming and kicking ensued.  At one point I decided to try to remove the duck she had from her as punishment for being a huge turd, telling her in my calm, Dr. Phil-like voice that I was not going to tolerate her behavior.  She got smart and SAT on the duck.  I nearly crashed the car in my fury and steely resolve to remove the duck from her posterior.  Success . . . at a red light.  More screaming, kicking, and eventually, shrieking followed by hiccuping, snot trails, burping and nearly puking from being so mad.  I lost it about 1 mile from our house.  I hit play on the old Ipod, cranked the music as loud as my ears could tolerate (not even CARING for ONE MINUTE what kind of permanent hearing damage I inflicted on Lily) and started maniacally singing along so that I couldn’t hear the wretched satanic sounds issuing from the back seat.  That made her cry harder, which gave me a combo guilt/pleasure emotion. 

At home, I calmly closed the car doors, thanking Volvo again profusely for their well-made, soundproofed automobiles.  I could barely hear her!  Bliss!  Heaven!  I walked to the mailbox, browsed through the junk mail, meandered back to her door, and asked her to get out.  Mike offered to take her, but I was feeling calm and triumphant. I’d only raised my voice once. 

Upstairs the screaming continued.  She was now mad about the lack of Ducky #2 and the fact that I refused to “CARRY CARRY CARRY ME MAMAAAAAAA”.  Then I tried to undress her for the bath, which caused another fit because she wanted to do it.  I finally became the anti-Dr.Phil and screamed, “THEN JUST DO IT!!! I’VE HAD IT!!!”  (Note to self:  screaming at Lily doesn’t help, at all, but man, at the time, it sure feels good)

Eventually I stripped her while she kicked and screamed, put her in the tub, and washed her.  After the bath, she calmed down, and I held her until she stopped crying and we had a rational, calm discussion about how her behavior is unacceptable, and that because of her 30 minute scream-fest, she would lose story priviledges for the night.  It set off another set of waterworks, but I held firm and told her that she would learn the hard way that the tantrums don’t work and there were going to be consistent repercussions if she kept it up.  As I put her to bed, she gazed into my eyes and said softly, “Mommy, PLEASE read me a story,” complete with quivering lip.  NO!  My Inner Disciplinarian shouted.  DO NOT GIVE IN TO THE DARK SIDE!  I explained equally softly, minus quivering lip, that it hurt me not to be able to read to her - that I love to read to her in bed - but that she had blown her chance and tomorrow was a new day, and a new chance to get through the day without the demon possession. 

I’m not proud of the music-blasting episode (and I subjected her to the Pixies, no less) and I’m not proud of the screaming fit I had, in which I threw her shirt at her and stormed out of the room.  I am proud that Mike and I stood firm and didn’t give in.  I’m also totally freakin’ exhausted and for tonight, wish that I had no children, especially a 19 month old who is teething, crabby as all hell, and ridiculously independent, along with a 3 1/2 year old who is as stubborn and willfull as me, and very articulate about her needs, no matter how crazy they may be.

And yes, yes, yes, I love them interminably.  They are my life, my humor, the stuff that makes life living and worthwhile.  That doesn’t mean that on days like today I don’t wish for a vacation from parenthood, or a very strong painkiller that renders me speechless, thoughtless, and very, very sleepy.