I know you don’t understand my life, the goodness, the sweetness and the parts that make me tear my hair out.

A lot of it is me. I know that. I don’t do well under certain conditions that seem to transpire quite frequently when you are a parent of small ones.

So.  It’s more me than them.

(I wrote you a long letter, did you know?  When I had that bad day after our brief interlude, when I was crying. I won’t post it here. Maybe somewhere else. But nowhere where anyone knows me.  I don’t want to hurt you. What you said was true.  At any rate, I believe what you said as my own way of thinking.  Sometimes I need to highlight the tediousness, tho, you know?  As a way to get through it. I know you don’t understand)

You’ve seen the pictures, right?  All the pictures out there in the cyber-world, of mamas and dads learning with their kids, the instagrammed photos of sweet faces, chubby hands, curly heads, the sun streaming in the window over the table filled with crafts, everyone happily creating some darling work of art or quietly learning their letter of the day.

It’s peaceful and harmonious and full of such love.


Here’s my version.


You see, they don’t record the scene five minutes later.  The havoc. The 2 year old cutting up everyone’s delicious art project. The 5 year old collapsing on the floor because he can’t get it to look just the way he wants.  The 2 year old again, applying glue or glitter or crayons or magic marker or watercolors or colored pencils or (did I mention sidewalk chalk?) anything really, to the walls, again, for the 10th time.

No biggie.

Gotta run.  The 2 year old is cutting up all the flowers outside with his kiddie pinking shears.


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