I am, of course, not writing this post.

Because this post might venture along the periphery of an unmentionable, unthinkable, unseemly, untoward topic.

It’s just that I write in the evening now, after bedtime, and so the topic has raised its head for me to stifle and ignore. After bedtime battles and nonsense and bickering and adrenaline the topic begs and I refuse. I write when Peanut is at his worst and Butter is at his dreamy best but I resist writing this post.

I am definitely not writing this post, in which I might have pondered whether it’s perfectly normal to unceasingly adore a sweet, needy, small being who has a delicious temper and heart melting smile even when he is ripping my hair out at the roots, while at the same time loathing a sweet, high strung, intense, persistent, hilariously naughty, beligerent, sassy, funny, creative, ill tempered medium small being who has a horrific temper and a heart melting trill of “Mommy, I love you bigger than the Universe” even when he’s behaving in ways that make me rip my own hair out at the roots.

So I’m not asking if it’s common to find a growing rift in the desperate love of mother for child as the child individuates and tests limits and boundaries and the laws of physics. Nor am I asking if it’s typical to adore even the tough parts of meeting the needs of the completely needy infant who could, hypothetically, be causing pain or frustration.

Because I would never address the perception that pain and frustration from one child is less painful or frustrating than that of another child. Nor that mild annoyances from an older child are infinitely more infuriating than serious inconveniences from a younger child.

Especially in a blog.