spirited

Like an annual hazing ritual in which it keeps husbands away long into the hours of the night; football is at it again.

It's 1:00am; do you know where your husband is?  Because I have absolutely no idea.

I have nothing better to do than to make hats, wish it were quieter than it was, eat some cookies, then buy some books about raising spirited children, because I have pulled Eisley off of the stairs 3293483 times today, fished things out of the toilet, cleaned nail polish from the bathroom counter, and picked up the little rat's toilet paper nest(s).

Have we discussed the tantrums?  How about the books that did no harm, but received wrongful coloring punishment of the scribbled variety?  The hitting?  The trash obsession?  What about the sleep that doesn't exist or the picky eating that I swore I would never tolerate?

I'm off to bed.  To read about these creatures they call spirited children.  The strangest part of all is that my mom purchased books like this when I was little; something about this seems as though I should find Eisley's stubborn streak and strong-willed attitude extremely relatable.

Instead, I think I'm losing my mind a day at a time.

There's not a doubt in my mind that I was meant to be her mom, and that there's not a better person for the job, but I have a feeling I am in for the long haul on this journey of discovery.  It's sort of enchanting to see the strength of genetics at such an early stage in life.  A firecracker she is; I know she'll do great things with her attitude.

She is the most lovable little monster I can think of, but this is one of the most difficult parenting stages I have been invited to; it's like a party I can't leave.

And difficult or not, those dimples, those chubby, kissable cheeks, and her slobbery kisses and polite manners make it all more than worth it.