We now rejoin our regularly scheduled rant…

already in progress:

…and you’d better call the insurance bastards to see if it’s covered.

As for you, Peanut, you are a very interesting introduction to the fine, fine phase that is Four Years Old. Nothing could be worse than Three, it is true. But if Three was all Mr. Hyde and no Jekyl, Four is the maddening experience of discerning what dropped hat sends you from Jekyl to Hyde and back. No, I will not pick up the toy you kicked across the room. You threw one, I took it away. You threw another, I took it away. Most of your collection is on top of the bookcase today, waiting to see which version of you comes out of your room tomorrow morning. So when you kick a toy out of anger, you get to pick it up yourself. No, you do it. Cry all you want; I no longer flip out when you’re in distress. A newborn has made me immune to your terrorist tactics. Butter is the antidote to my occasional Peanut allergy.

Butter, you’d better stop it. Seriously. Knock it off. I followed all your nonverbal cues, I did everything you wanted, and I got you to sleep. Just because I moved the slightest bit does not mean you can flutter your eyes open and start flirting with me. Yes, you’re cute. Yes, you’re still tiny enough that everything you do is precious. Your loud sleeping is delightful, your recent partial baldness is adorable, and your waste products are coo-inspiring. But go to freaking sleep, you little monkey!

And quit suggesting that you want to nurse just so you can gather huge mouthfuls of milk and the spit them on me. That’s not funny, despite what your brother says.

Hey, agents who have my novel and haven’t replied in well past the 6 weeks you promised: screw you! What is wrong with you? All the other rejections came within the appropriate timeframe. It’s rude to set a deadline and miss it without notifying involved parties that you need longer to complete the task. I don’t want your representation, anyway. This thing is gonna be huge, and so will the next dozen or so I write, and you’ll rue the day. You’ll weep, you’ll rend your garments and pull out your hair. You’ll want a time machine to take you back to when you first heard my name just so you can jump at the chance to take on all my current and future brilliance. You will self-flagellate, and you will be correct in so torturing yourselves.

Sure, Peanut, we can go to the playground. Sure you can climb that big ol’ thing you’re always scared of. Sure I can help you down. Just turn around and…no, I can’t climb up there with you. I can’t help you from up there. I can help you from down here. No, I can’t take baby home and come back without the sling. Even if I did, I’d still be short and unable to lift 35 pounds down from well above my head. I will stand here and talk to you gently for 30 freaking minutes, convincing you that I will help and you won’t fall and you can do it. And after that interminable period of patience and goodness and model mothering, during which I have to take two time outs to keep from beating you and one to nurse your brother, I will grab you by the ankles and pull you off the play structure. Yes, you technically fell. I mostly, kind of caught you, though. It was a slow fall. Are you hurt? No? Good. Come on. Time to go make you the dinner you request and then refuse to eat.

16 thoughts on “We now rejoin our regularly scheduled rant…

  1. Oh, boy! You had one of those days…Can’t promise that it will get better, but it will certainly never leave you without something to write about…

    You are not alone. I, too, have grabbed children off playground equipment by the ankles, etc., made requested dinners that were then refused…

    Sending you a virtual hug…and screw the agents, too, dammit!

  2. I love you when you rant.

    Sans the lovely newborn, you day sounds a lot like one of mine. Except add excrement that is not coo-inspiring.

    I am thinking, in Miss M.’s case, that 4 is actually worse than 3. Many more tantrums. And hitting.

    At least you can blame your lack of patience on lack of sleep. I’m just a bitch.

  3. THAT’S RIGHT, NAPTIME! Your novel is gonna be so kick-ass that those agents will tell stories in their drunken stupors about how close they came to making a crazy fortune representing you.

    There WILL be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

  4. Ah, it sounds like we have a lot in common. Except no park, no sling, and no novel for any one to read. Cheer up! Things will get better. And some one is going to be smart enough to buy your novel.

  5. oh yeah. make dinner and have nobody eat it. except you, of course. that’s where we are right now. and the biggest culprit is the one who a mere month ago hadn’t stopped eating since the day she was born. but no tantrums today, nappy. no tantrums. just night terrors due to abnormally sweltering night time weather, due to the end times. i’ll buy your novel. i’ll buy two.

  6. Oh, I hear you on the four-year-old thing. Just as I was starting to think about writing that four was looking like a charming age, it morphed into the most unpredictable and maddening combination of extreme, over-acted delightfulness and frequent, long-lasting outbursts of HELL.

  7. 1. That sounds like a heck of a day. Hugs.

    2. I’m sorry that the things happen that MAKE you rant, but I am grateful for the way you write about them. Hilarious.

    Agents, aka asshats, sign my girl up NOW, idiots!

  8. “A newborn has made me immune to your terrorist tactics. Butter is the antidote to my occasional Peanut allergy.”

    — Yes. I handle eldest a lot differently now that I’ve got baby. He’s picking up after himself a lot more now, and having to pull up his pants both metaphorically and literally. He doesn’t like this new-found independence as much as I do, but I think he will like it eventually. It’s just a big transition. He’s currently getting his revenge through bed wetting.

    Good luck with the novel. One of my friends is shopping around for agents, and his experience has been that they almost never respond in the allotted time. Waiting sucks.

  9. Love the dinner requests followed by refusals to eat. Nino did that alot for a while until I finally just stopped cooking for him for a couple of days and only offered reheated versions of previously rejected meals.

    Suddenly, he was cured.

  10. If only my rants were this funny.

    And when I was begging Tankbaby to sleep, “monkey” is not the word that followed “you little.” Just saying.

Comments are closed.