Aiden and Tristen have recently started vying for my attention with the kind of praise any 11-year-old girl would kill for. I am told I am pretty allllll the time. alllllllll day long. luuucky me.
That is until Tristen became a complimenting terrorist stopping at nothing to inform me of my "prettiness."
"Just a second, Tris," I beg while rocking a cranky baby on one hip while attempting to open a box of crackers for the other terrorist in our house, our daughter, Ali. On a side note, anyone who says girls are easier has never met my daughter. She's the hardest, most demanding, and loudest child
we have I have ever met. Btw, she's, also, for sale.
The decibel level in his cries wrench into my compassionate mommy soul.
Some thing's wrong! Some thing's terribly wrong!! I think to myself as his face scrunches into painful anguish and a second thought crosses my mind, I had too many kids too close together and I suck at taking care of them, as my three youngest cry like the grim reaper is swiftly approaching their short, miserable lives.
I am a shitty mom, flushes over my greasy unwashed hair, down my husband's stained shirt because my own clothes remind me of that foreign body that use to be mine, all the way down to the pathetic chipped nail polish on my toes.
"What's wrong, Tristen!?" I plead. I hope my concern and meager effort can level out my inadequacies.
His anguish instantly switches to pure joy as his eyes beam of pure, incandescent love and his two favorite words in the entire world happily bounce out of his upturned mouth, "you're pretty."
"Thanks, Trissy," is what comes out of my mouth when I really want to just give him a hard-cold stare of sarcastic death and say, "are you fucking kidding me?!" because my kid is a sweetheart and I'm just an exhausted bitch that writes a blog about the difficulties of being pretty.
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