…says to me, “Wow, eClaire never cries like that when I watch her.”

I might just have to inflict serious punish­ment such as loc­king that per­son inside our 1100 sq ft house for seven days-in a row-without the air con­di­tio­ner on-with two children-TV banned-the only food in the house being liver and spinach.

Maybe that will cure the need to tell me how she’s so much bet­ter for him than me.

Saying this to the mom who is tired, I mean ti-red of her daugh­ter crying each and every time a dia­per needs to be chan­ged, clothes put on, or when the apple juice is pre­sen­ted in the wrong cup. (The cup pre­fe­rence, by the way, chan­ges daily-hourly-by the minute.)

And let’s not talk about the shoes. Oh the shoes! eClaire is a shoe Nazi. They have to be the per­fect pair of shoes (again the pre­fe­rence chan­ges daily-hourly-by the minute) and SHE, the 17 month old, must put them on.

See any pro­blem with this?

So after I enter the door and my dear daugh­ter begins to cry, please hold your ton­gue. Don’t tell me that she never cries when you have her. I already know this little bit of information.

I guess I’m the lucky one.

No excuse me while I fix myself a drink.