Mommy needs nap time.

Maybe he's sick, maybe he's getting a molar, maybe there's some logical explanation that, when I look back on this, I'll feel embarrassed and guilty for being so frustrated.  Well, actually I already feel embarrassed and guilty.  I'm a mother now, I'm supposed to be loving and virtuous at all times.

I don't remember how much sleep I got last night, but I remember that while I was lying awake listening to my husband wrestle with a screaming toddler in the next room, I glanced at the clock and thought "4 am, we are not getting any sleep tonight."

Which brings us to nap time.  I read William three stories while his sister, the puking princess, wailed in the other room.  I finally got him down, but when I went to leave, my son awoke from his slumber moaning "Mommy sleep."

Clearly, the baby needed me, couldn't he see that?  He wouldn't let me go.  Every time I tried to tend to Jadzia, there was snotty, red-faced William, whining, demanding, and throwing board books.  (Yes, throwing books, no kidding).

I'd like to say I took all this in stride, but I kept feeling that same surge of anger that caused me to physically abuse my siblings as a child.  Well I'm a grownup now, so I don't hit or pinch, or anything like that.  However, in a moment of weakness, I said to my son: "So you like being a selfish brat."

He patted his chest proudly "Sel-fush bat. Sel-fush bat. Sel-fush bat."

So I pulled out the technique I only use when desperate: I piled all the kids in the car and drove around the block a hundred times.  Normally this puts my son to sleep right away. This time, no such luck.  I must have been driving for twenty minutes around all the windy little sidestreets in the maze that is my neighbourhood.  Finally I gave up and went to my mother's.

I love you Mom.  Sorry that I was once a toddler.