The Girl

Hey, look, for once I'm not here to whine about writing.

Cuz in order to whine about writing, you have to actually WRITE, and all I do is stare at my computer and eat salted caramel squares.  (I guess I could whine about that, but I think it's sacrilege to whine about salted caramel.  Pretty sure it's in the bible.  Somewhere in the back.)

No, today I'm here to whine about my kids.  

I must preface this whining with the disclaimer that, of course, I LOVE my kids.  I'm crazy about my kids.  Bonkers over them.  Every moment with them is a blessing and, especially in light of current events, I feel so lucky to have them and cannot even imagine my life without them.  That being said...WHAT THE ACTUAL EFFING HELL IS WITH THE TERRIBLE TWOS, LIKE, OHMYGOD THEY HAVE A FREAKING VACCINE FOR EVERYTHING ELSE, CAN THEY GET ON THAT, LIKE, NOW PLEASE.  

See, it's The Girl.  The Boy is fine.  He's almost eight.  But even when he was in Terrible Two territory, he never ventured that far into the meltdown/tantrum forest.  Occasionally he would, but it happened so rarely that when he did go ape shit, I was like a deer in headlights.  But with The Girl, I'm less like a deer in headlights and more like a deer banging its head against a wall while the screeching banshee next to it tries to break its kneecaps with a sippy cup full of overpriced organic apple juice.  Someone please tell me why EVERYTHING gives her BLIND RAGE.  Here is a list of things that anger The Girl:

1.  When I won't let her do what she wants

2.  When I will let her do what she wants

3.  When I won't give her the one thing she is asking for

4.  When I do give her the one thing she is asking for

5.  Ritz Crackers (apparently they are of the devil)

6.  Everything else in the universe, including the non-existent swimming pool in our backyard that she suddenly realized we didn't have, and SWEET MOTHER OF CRAP, do you have any idea the level of fresh hell that is involved with trying to explain to a two year-old why you suddenly don't have something that you don't have?  How do you even form that into a cohesive argument?  Oh, wait, never mind, she's already forgotten about the non-existent pool and she's now trying to jam a fork in the DVR while giving her brother the Vulcan death grip with a PlayStation controller. 

I don't understand the logic (or lack thereof) of a two year-old.  Here's the super nice mommy lady, who gives you kisses and hugs and stays up with you all night when you're projectile vomiting hot dogs, and she's asking you nicely to not try to clean the brand new flat screen TV with play-doh.  Why wouldn't you go, "Hey, I love her and she gives me cuddles and doesn't laugh at me when I crap my pants.  I think I'll listen to her and stop."  But NO.  Let's smear the squishy stuff even harder onto the screen, then throw some at the nice mommy lady, then SCREAM LIKE A MONKEY ON CRACK until her ears bleed. 

Of course, because I'm an optimist (read: control freak), I google every variation of "Coping with Terrible Twos" possible because THERE MUST BE A CURE.  Something that can be administered with blow darts from across the room or something.  But there is no cure.  There's coping skills.  Ways to diffuse the situation.  You, as the parent, are to stay calm, speak to your child in a soothing voice, use "feeling" words.  ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME?  The child just tried to shiv me with a frozen mango-strawberry Go-Gurt because I touched it, or didn't touch it, or looked at it, or thought about looking at it, or said the word "sock", and it just rubbed her the wrong way.  If I walked up to someone and tried to remove their kidney with a frozen stick of fruity probiotics, I doubt they'd speak to me calmly and use "feeling" words.  I'd be on the news.  Insane woman attacks innocent man with yogurt, throws herself on the sidewalk and screams "mine, mine, mine" until police arrive.  Neighborhood Watches would be formed because of me.  Yet, when this pint sized dictator in my house tries to behead me, I'm supposed to stay calm and use "feeling" words?  Yep, okay, I have a few "feeling" words for ya.  How about PISSED OFF. 

Today, The Girl and I had a half hour "conversation" (me talking, The Girl talking then screaming then crying, me talking again, The Girl screaming more) about a shoe.  A SHOE.  No sane human should ever have a half hour conversation about a shoe.  That's not something normal people do.  If someone told you they just talked for a half hour about a shoe, you'd be all, "wow, maybe you should check yourself in somewhere, get some rest, take some pills, do some yoga".  Yet, there I was..."No, you need to have your other shoe, too, no, you can't wear the tupperware container for a shoe, I'm sorry, no, no, the shoe.  No, the shoe.  No, not the plastic banana.  The shoe.  Yes, the shoe.  Because, you need the shoe.  No, please don't give Mommy a lobotomy with the shoe.  Just put it on your foot.  The shoe.  No, not Daddy's shoe, your shoe..." 

I know it's a whole frontal lobe thing.  That part of her brain that imparts logic and reasoning into situations has yet to develop.  Again, I go back to the potential cure/blow darts.  I mean, seriously, can we speed this frontal lobe thing up?  Slip them a few "lobe accelerators" or something? 

Or maybe I just need to be hooked up to a Mojito drip at all times.  Then the shiving with the frozen Go-Gurt wouldn't hurt and I'd find the shoe conversation downright spiritual.  

Basically, what I'm trying to say is...KIDS ARE WEIRD.

They're also cute.  Really cute.  And adorable.  Which makes you forgive the near-death experience with the Go-Gurt.  Especially when they climb up on your lap and say things like, "I love you to you, mommy".  

Yes, I love you to you, too, you nutty broad. 

Trying to be a Writer

Hmmm, it appears from my previous post that I was not having a good day that day.

See, I'm being all coy, like I only vaguely remember posting that link, but I totally remember doing it and totally remember why.  I won't go into detail.  Writing makes me want to impale myself on sharp objects Writing is hard.  Trying to be a BON-EE FIDE writer is emotionally draining.  Here's what it's like:

First, you write the book.  Yeah, cuz that's totally no biggy.  Slapping out an 80K word story that sorta makes sense.  EASY PEASY.  Then, there's querying.  Huge time suck.  Then there's waiting, waiting, waiting, and then, one day...BOOM!  REQUESTS!!! Which make you go like this...

...more querying, more waiting, NA's ("no responses" to queries), waiting, waiting, waiting, more NA's, often to the aforementioned requests.  Yes, they request to read your book and then you NEVER HEAR BACK EVER EVEN WHEN YOU NUDGE.  So, then you're all like this...

And then there's other stuff.  When you write, you are ALL OUT THERE.  Like, naked with all your bits hanging free.  Whether it be sending stuff out for critiques or actually sending the finished product to agents, at some point, people tell you what they think.  And some people have no problem telling you that you have no talent, that your writing is flawed from head to toe.  In fact, I know someone that is so utterly convinced of my suckiness, they say the darndest things to me, like my suckiness is mutually agreed upon, so saying/implying such is no big whoop. Which kinda makes me go...

So, yeah, that, and then the other stuff, and you're just, ugh, it's like this only worse:

And then, inevitably, like a nervous tick, you feel the need to write another book.  Because the first one two three four were such fulfilling experiences.  Plus, you're under some demented delusion that you're SUPPOSED to be a writer.  But then you get a few chapters in and you're all...

 

Because you realize you TOTALLY agree with that person who is so utterly convinced of your suckiness, and you kind of want to call them and say "I KNOW YOU ARE SO RIGHT I KNOW IT TO BE TRUE!" That's when you realize you're like one of those sad sacks from the American Idol auditions, who they profile first, and you hear how they're convinced they were born to sing, and that singing is in their soul, in their blood, and they've got DREAMS and PLANS and stuff, and then they sing, and everyone is all...

But you still write it.  Because there is something seriously wrong with you.  

Basically, in a nutshell, THIS is what it's like trying to be a writer:

THIS

THIS pretty much sums up how I'm feeling about my writing career right now.

That is all.