The older I get and the more I parent, I realize that my mom has the will power of a saint. Because there is no way in hell I will not remind my kids about the stupid, ridiculous crap they fight me about when they are older.
Begging your child for the 400th time to wipe the snot dripping out of his nose as he screams like you are trying to cut off his nose (and not wipe it) will do that to you.
Or maybe I was just the perfect child.
I can't really quite remember anything ridiculous that Quinlan did, though I do sometimes remind her about how horribly she used to sleep, mostly as early birth control.
Babies never sleep, so that's why you don't want to have them until you are at least 32.
I'm starting her young, as if my bad days aren't enough to make her not want to have kids.
"I want two kids," she told me the other day.
I take that as a compliment that I'm cock blocking her for a good 20 or so more years.
But Drew and Margot have both made up for what Quinlan was lacking in typical toddler and preschooler behavior.
Take the time Drew just laid down right in the middle of the security line at the airport and wouldn't stop screaming.
Thank you, son, for letting me cross that off my list of parenting rites of passage. Also, if you're going to do that, make sure it's for a good reason. Like protesting pat downs or because mommy can't take her big bottle of Wodky past TSA. Not because you have to take your shoes off.
Margot is sweet as sugar pie until you piss her off, which I've yet to figure out exactly what that is -- the million dollar parenting question I imagine -- and then she just screams "no" at you, even when you're not really asking her opinion about something, all while attempting to beat you with whatever is in close proximity.
A piece of scrap paper? Not so bad. My flip flop? Dangerous business.
But really, neither of those things bother me as much as having to force my children to do regular, every day, completely harmless things.
Like blowing a nose. Or eating food.
Delicious not disgusting totally not poisoned ISWEARTOGOD food.
Or putting on a sock. A soft, clean, washed sock that will not eat your foot or cut it or make it disappear.
So, I'm keeping a list. A long "I told you so" list of crazy shit my children fought me about so that when they are chasing their own children around with a tissue or a sock or are trying to get them to eat delicious food, I can reference said list and remind them of their own insanity.
And laugh. Mightily.
That is until my smartypants children pull out a tape recorder of all the times I dropped the F-bomb and play back incriminating video of angry sippy cup spiking incident.
And then show me their blog.