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I think I may have lost the ability to write.

No, really. It's lost. I swear I just had it but then I went to pour myself a glass of water and now I can't figure out where I put it... A month ago.

Who am I kidding*? Maybe it's been longer than that. A year? More? It's probably with that red sweater I've been looking for forever.

It could be that I'm lacking in inspiration. It's hard to get inspired when all I do is go from preschool drop-off to playgroups to gymnastics class to Mom and Tots music class and back home so my spawn can get rest. Me? I get laundry.

I'm not complaining necessarily - I signed up for all this stuff. Hell, I signed up for this parenting gig. No one forced me into it, no one tricked me, but I'd be lying if I said the redundancy, the mind-numbing monotony wasn't starting to get to me.

(And for the record, I wrote "MOM-otony" before spell check caught it. True story.)

(Uh Tania, there's someone on the phone for you. A Mr. Freud? Oh sorry, Doctor Freud. He'd like to talk to you about your lingerie? Sorry again, your slip.)

Okay maybe I'm complaining a little. I really don't want to be one of those "What About ME???" people but Christ on a cracker... What about ME?????

(It's safe, I'm done. You can come back now.)

The thing about this here blog o' mine is it's supposed to be a true and honest account of my life, both with and without children (and by that I mean, my life beyond children. I always have them because, well, they won't go away.), so if I were following with that theme I would be honest about the fact that life is kicking my heiny these days. So here goes - Life? Is kicking my ass with its size 12 boot. There's tread marks back there that no amount of miracle creams will remove. And by tread marks, I mean cellulite.

So that's why I'm not writing - I'm waiting for inspiration to come back. In the meantime, I will tackle Mount St. Laundry and play chauffeur and be the seemingly happy-go-lucky, iced coffee swilling, kids-overscheduling, yoga pant-wearing, Uber-mom. But without the closet meth habit. And I will write again when inspiration decides to come out of her hiding place among the lost socks and misplaced grocery store cards and single earrings and random My Pretty Ponies. Which at this rate should be right around 2011.



*Really, who am I kidding? It was gin. Water? Pssh.

What's next, life? Kicking kittens?

Hi, internet people. I've missed you.

I wrote a post - really, I did! And then Blogger ate it. Gluttonous bastard.

Two weeks with no posting - TWO WEEKS - and when I finally sit down to write something... Poof! It's gone. Off to the great internet junkyard in the sky. Or something like that. I can't even think of a decent metaphor, that's how ticked off I am.

It was brilliant! And pithy! With lovely descriptive images that would have made Hemingway weep! As far as you know, the damn thing is lost now so I can talk it up if I want to.

I give up. I think I'm going to go eat another leftover birthday cupcake and wallow. Peanut butter frosting is equally good for celebrating 37th birthdays and for wallowing.

Well Rope, it seems we've reached the end.

My daughter and I are at war. All out, nuclear missile, weapons of mass destruction, war. W-A-R, WAR. What is it good for? That's right, absolutely nuthin'.

My heart hurts, my head is pounding and my throat is sore from yelling. And I'm pretty sure my neighbors are wondering who that crazy bitch is who moved in last year, the one who screeches at her kid. I've reached the end of my rope on more than one occasion over the past year and nothing I do seems to make any bit of difference. Not that screaming helps. Nope. That's just to release the frustration so things don't actually get broken. It doesn't work either.

Maybe it's the age? Her personality? My personality? It doesn't start out bad - I'm positive. I'm zen-mother-goddess. I praise, I reward, I praise, I reward, it devolves, I warn, I punish, I punish, I punish, I lose control, I scream. I do everything the experts tell me to do until it becomes clear it's not working and then it turns into a horrible shouting match. Doors are slammed, things are thrown. Everything, and I do mean everything, is a fight.

Hey Chicky, it's daytime!

No! It's not and you can't tell me it is. Hmmph.

But, but, the sun is shining. It's day. Really! Look! It's daytime.

NO!!! *screaming, crying, tantrum, slamming door, The End*

She's four, for Christ's sake. What's going to happen to us in the coming years if we can't get this sorted out now?

We don't have good days and bad days anymore. We have a good ten or twenty minute span followed by a few hours of hell. Or maybe we go a whole hour or two without arguing and I get comfortable and cocky and then she sets me off with her repeated insolence and rude, defiant behavior.

I want to wrap this up nicely with a pretty pink bow but there is nothing pretty or nice about ending the day with the both of us in tears. There are no learning moments, no future seen in soft-focus, only pain and frustration and fear. I fear that I'm failing her and by virtue of that, her sister who witnesses it all. These are essential years and I can't seem to get it right. It doesn't really bode well for the rest of their childhoods, you know?

I'm so tired. I was hoping by writing this I'd get some of this pressure off my chest and I'd feel better. Turns out, no. There's a list of child development specialists on my fridge that I can call, that I should call, so why does it feel like admitting defeat? Like I can't properly parent my child.

I sound like a broken record at this point. Feel free to move on. No humor, no cute stories. Nothing to see here. Move along.

And please ignore the screaming.