The Reign Of The Baby Is Over

It's been a couple of weeks since I last blogged and I promise I will get around to covering ALL of that. In the meantime, I've been using my keen parental, observational skills and found some things out about my "baby". She's a pain in the ass.

Now when I say baby, I'm sure most of you who don't know me personally are thinking about a parasitic little bundle of spit-up and horrible Tigger onesies, hanging off of some crazed-haired, unbathed, TLC-addicted shadow of a former female human being. No. MY baby is almost six and she's the nightmare my parents had high hopes of me being cursed with.

Up until about six months ago I let that child get away with murder. Seriously. She put a body in the septic system. Whatever Evie Booty wanted, she got. When Evie Booty ran crying to me that her sister hit her because she (allegedly) tore the legs off of her sisters' Monster High doll, I'd smite the older child and give Evie Booty a cup of hot cocoa.

Not fair you say? Horrible parenting you say? Piss off. All parents have a favorite. I'm just woman enough to admit what you're all stuffing down in that (fifth) glass of chardonnay. It was totally fair. After all, she was my youngest and last child. She's the only one of FOUR girls who actually looked like me. And she's too stinking cute, so there.

Well, I started really paying attention to what was happening in my home. I began investigating the catalyst to the unnecessary amounts of drama and chaos being conjured up in the "kid caves" and found Evie Booty Doo at the center of a LOT of it. Don't get me wrong, the eight and ten year-olds can be assholes too.

Then something happened. I became...annoyed...with the Booty. I realized just how needy and spoiled I had made her. I'd pour a Dr. Pepper (when I say Dr. Pepper I mean a glass of wine). I set it down. The Booty asks for a drink of Mommy Juice and I yell, "NO!" I walk into my room for two seconds and BOOM! I walk in and find the "BABY" trying to grab my glass off the counter.

I'm cooking dinner and Evie runs up and begins hugging my leg or finger and I have to peel her off of me like a Bandaid (I am stuck on Bandaid brand cause Bandaid's stuck on me). The child kisses me anywhere she can get her big boogery lips. I'm not kidding. If there's an exposed knee or toe or belly, she's kissing it.

Now I'm not complaining that my kids love me too much (and in fact they do). I'm complaining about the fact that between marriage and kids, I've lost my interdependence. The thing that USED to tell me I am me, and you are you, and I chose to marry/give birth to you, but we are still individuals but it's the unity that I love because of the conscious choice to do it but knowing that my heart would keep beating if any of these things ever ceased to be.

So now I'm trying to wean my kid off of "spoiled". I laugh at crack addicts. This kid is a full-blown mommy addict and her withdrawals are nothing short of spastic. Now when I tell her, "no", her whole face turns completely inside out and I am now looking at the meat inside her body. Her body looks as if it's melting like a Salvador Dali painting her shoulders are now parallel with her knees.

I was surrounded by people who told me "you'll regret it if you spoil your kids" and all I can say to them is "NO SHIT!". But in all fairness, I would do it all over again. Only next time, I'd use a lot more duct tape and a low-powered paintball gun.