My Bestie gets a little scary when you don’t do what she says right the hell then, when her mouth still hangs open from releasing the instruction and the words still reverberate. Recently, she’s been pointing out that my title, as Mommyblogger, should be revoked as I now mostly “mommy” and I don’t “blogger” as much as the title demands.

At first it was a text here and a text there, “Hey, I just blogged. Your turn.” Well, all right that’s acceptable best friend behavior… but then she tried being kind – something that sticks in her craw because it is not her nature to force kindness instead of just kicking your ass – “Oh, my blog is just frivolity, wine and a talking cat. Yours is a beautifully rendered emotional bounty! You must write!” Uh huh. I called bullshit and so that didn’t work either. Needless to say the here and there texts got a little more aggressive and often times weren’t friendly in the least. All the while she continued to bang out posts on her blog no problem – which let me tell you is more spattered ink on fresh parchment because I don’t know where she finds time. Also? She’s one of these people we hate, why? She manages to not only blog but keep a skinny figure by working out every day. Every day, people. Ok? Yeah. Grab your pitchforks and your torches. I feel like burning a bitch – cough cough – I mean witch, tonight!

All right, all right. I digress. As much as I worry her next “nudge” will be carrier pigeons with letter bombs … I can’t tear Bestie a new one because she’s only – in her world – doing me a solid. And, frankly it is better coming from her because I can take her jabs. After twenty years, I am used to them. They only cause pain not soul crushing defeat, the kind I would bear if my Dad even mentioned my spotty blog record. But see, the difference there is that he knows better and I am not afraid of him. No, I’d definitely tear him a new one …

Anyway my darlings, I don’t know why I go on and on about this issue every time I manage to sit down and write. It isn’t fair to shoulder guilt over having other responsibilities; and responsibilities that come in baby form are at the top of the heap, because as I hear, if you ignore them, don’t feed them and so on they grow up to know one thing: How to deploy a can of whoop-ass.

As you can well imagine and if you have toddlers of your own, at the end of the day I am beyond any descriptor of “tired”. When hubby gets home, I am so devoid of human emotion I can’t even think to write, and the thought of trying to create ingenious word treasure under the duress of a screeching nineteen month old makes my synapses misfire anyway.

It is a damn shame in any case because the reason I am so exhausted is because the range of emotions we go through as moms on a day to day basis is getting not only extreme but is probably a danger to our aging hearts and cardiovascular systems. For everything astounding Jonah is achieving these days, he is coupling each one with a major piss-off. I spend way too much time sorting out how could something so cute, a kid so capable of heart-warming gestures be the same ugly knee-high brute that throws your phone into the bathtub? Hubby denies his spawn had malicious intent but I still remain steadfast in my belief that he was trying to electrocute me. Silly tiny thing has no idea what it takes to take down Rome … yet watching my cell phone sink down to the bottom of the filled tub, well, it hurt Rome. Rome cried.

Still, I am not defeated. Why? Because the smarter part of me knows that Jonah hasn’t brought out his Trojan horse quite yet. I know the juice spitting, isn’t the horse. I know the haphazard slapping, ain’t the horse (though it ain’t no pony either), no. I know that even the public tantrums or the war against all high chairs, and booster seats; none of it is the horse. Frankly, I don’t even fear the horse … I fear what happens next after the belly of the beast splits open.

I wrote a lot of notes to Bestie in History class … so don’t tell me how it ends.

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Post Script – Hubby tells me Rome and the Trojan horse are not related. Apparently I’m thinking the Greeks and Troy … Well, excuse me. I am a writer not a bloody historian. All I know about the Greeks is that I like their moussaka. It begins and ends for me, at food. That is all.