Last week was filled with numerous temper tantrums by our daughter. Three-hour-long tantrums. Tantrums in which I was certain her head was going to spin around her neck several times, devil horns would sprout on her head, and she would spontaneously alight from her bed to hover over us as we cowered in the corner.
I haven't been able to write for a few days because I am still trying to recover from the twitching and hyperventilating that now occurs in me whenever her voice moves up an octave.
But that was a week ago. We survived the horror and so did she, and for the most part, she seems to have returned to her usual bossy-but-smiling-self.
I will admit that at one point I actually had the thought that if I SLAP HER, MAYBE SHE WILL STOP THE SCREAMING. Oh, the SCREAMING. Instead, out of sheer frustration and exhaustion, I left her in her crib and cried my eyes out on our front porch because I love my daughter and would never, ever raise a hand to her...unless it is to pass her my empty martini glass for a refill.
Some days it seems that I'm the only one who thinks this mothering stuff is hard.
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