Friday is Patrick's birthday.
My sweet, charming, cherubic, lovey-dovey, doughy CHOMPY CHOMP CHOMP how-have-I-not-eaten-this-delectable-child-ALL-UP-by-now Patrick will be three years old.
He's going to turn evil any minute. I just know it.
Somewhere back in the Mesozoic Era it was decreed that the twos shall be terrible. Terrible twos, terrible twos! Parents, beware of the terrible twos.
But since it's fairly obvious that dinosaurs don't know shit about raising kids, (Hello, may I please speak to Extinct? No? Well can you take a message?) I don't understand why we continue to perpetuate the myth of the terrible twos.
Actually, I do have a theory. It's because of alliteration. Americans will believe pretty much anything as long as the words start with the same letter sound. Terrible twos! Terrible twos! It's so fun to say, it must be true!
If there was such a word as "Therrible", we would all be talking about the Therrible Threes, which, may I say, IS HOW IT SHOULD BE.
Three year olds are very sinister people. They look as if they want to be your friend, but really they want you to feed them cupcakes for dinner or DIE. It's one or the other. Feed me cupcakes. Or die. And god forbid you unwrap one of these cupcakes from its little foil cup, or sample a bite of the cupcake, or break, maim, dent, or harm the cupcake in even the smallest way before you (gently) hand it over; you will be waterboarded in your three year old's own bitter tears.
People send me emails from time to time saying this blog makes them reconsider their desire to have children, and to these people I can only say: I AM TOTALLY SUGARCOATING IT.
And yet, I really do love it. Especially since I decided to reduce my shrieking and nagging by 98%. (That was a good move, by the way. Not being such a crazy maniacal bitch is highly recommended and Mouse Approved. Gold star. Even if you have to cry in the kitchen and point helplessly to the boys' room and make Larry do the whole "you know, them" thing every few nights or so.)
Patrick has made so many giant awesome hilarious leaps this year, and with his big brother entering kindergarten, he'll be on his own at preschool for the first time since he was six weeks old. And then he will be in kindergarten. And then, five or six minutes after that, he'll be six foot two and off to college, leaving me here kvetching to you people about my empty nest and how lonely it is.
How lonely, and ALSO CLEAN.
My sweet, charming, cherubic, lovey-dovey, doughy CHOMPY CHOMP CHOMP how-have-I-not-eaten-this-delectable-child-ALL-UP-by-now Patrick will be three years old.
He's going to turn evil any minute. I just know it.
Somewhere back in the Mesozoic Era it was decreed that the twos shall be terrible. Terrible twos, terrible twos! Parents, beware of the terrible twos.
But since it's fairly obvious that dinosaurs don't know shit about raising kids, (Hello, may I please speak to Extinct? No? Well can you take a message?) I don't understand why we continue to perpetuate the myth of the terrible twos.
Actually, I do have a theory. It's because of alliteration. Americans will believe pretty much anything as long as the words start with the same letter sound. Terrible twos! Terrible twos! It's so fun to say, it must be true!
If there was such a word as "Therrible", we would all be talking about the Therrible Threes, which, may I say, IS HOW IT SHOULD BE.
Three year olds are very sinister people. They look as if they want to be your friend, but really they want you to feed them cupcakes for dinner or DIE. It's one or the other. Feed me cupcakes. Or die. And god forbid you unwrap one of these cupcakes from its little foil cup, or sample a bite of the cupcake, or break, maim, dent, or harm the cupcake in even the smallest way before you (gently) hand it over; you will be waterboarded in your three year old's own bitter tears.
People send me emails from time to time saying this blog makes them reconsider their desire to have children, and to these people I can only say: I AM TOTALLY SUGARCOATING IT.
And yet, I really do love it. Especially since I decided to reduce my shrieking and nagging by 98%. (That was a good move, by the way. Not being such a crazy maniacal bitch is highly recommended and Mouse Approved. Gold star. Even if you have to cry in the kitchen and point helplessly to the boys' room and make Larry do the whole "you know, them" thing every few nights or so.)
Patrick has made so many giant awesome hilarious leaps this year, and with his big brother entering kindergarten, he'll be on his own at preschool for the first time since he was six weeks old. And then he will be in kindergarten. And then, five or six minutes after that, he'll be six foot two and off to college, leaving me here kvetching to you people about my empty nest and how lonely it is.
How lonely, and ALSO CLEAN.
RSS Feed
