A Tall Girl's Adventures in a Tiny World

It's 9:30 pm. Zippy is sitting up in his bed, "reading" loudly to his blankie and assorted Hotwheels cars. He refuses to lie down, and he refuses to be quiet. He's punishing me, you see, because I did not read a book to him tonight; this was his consequence for continually throwing cups of water at me during his bath, despite me telling him to stop. This happens often. At least the me telling him to stop part. And the him just doing whatever it is anyway part. (Usually doing whatever it is at full speed and without a care in the world for his own safety. I mean, he's two, after all. Safety-schmafety.) And the ineffectual consequences happen often, too, mostly, I think, because he's smarter than me. The kid frustrates me to no end. And he wears me out. But I can't stop giggling at him. In general, even when he's being a super-fresh-freshie, even when he's throwing food at me or climbing the retaining wall and leaping onto his face or chasing th...

I think to the rest of the world, I seem like a pretty pulled-together, confident thirtysomething-year-old woman. I dress neatly, I stand up straight, I smile at strangers, I joke with friends. I make it to appointments on time (mostly), I pay bills on time (mostly), I feed my children fruit or vegetables and dairy at every meal, and my cats are (finally) up-to-date on their shots. I work all day, race home to collect my children, and cook a real meal every single evening. I go to church regularly. I volunteer with the PTA. I take my children to the library weekly. We walk around the neighborhood, looking all rosy-cheeked and sun-tanned. But most of the time, I feel as if I'm about three seconds from a complete breakdown. Like all it will take is for my husband to criticize the way I stack dishes in the dish drainer, or for Happy to shriek like a banshee one more time, or for the cat to jump up on the table while I'm trying to set it...and I'll just explode apart into a m...