Today N had a grand mal tantrum on the way home from the store.
We had met some neighborhood friends at a local play area for kids where N and her 2 little friends ran themselves ragged to and from the various inflatables. Afterwards we stopped at the store to purchase miscellaneous items: detangler, toothbrushes, vitamins. Of course, no trip to any store is complete without a visit to the toy section.
When leaving the toy department, N found a book she wanted to peruse. Fine, no problem. "After you finish looking through this book, we are leaving because mommy is starting to get tired."
Five minutes later, I am hoisting her into the cart (probably undoing the pelvic adjustment I had this a.m. at the chiropractor's) and having to listen to what will become a 25 minute concert of lament and despair throughout the entire drive home. This was the chorus:
N: "I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home."
N: "I want my paci. I want my paci. I want my paci. I want my paci."
Me: "Paci is at home." (The new rule is paci doesn't leave the house--we are working on slowly breaking her dependence).
N: "I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home. I don't wanna go home."
Me: (Turns on NPR to help block out the screams coming from the backseat).
N: "I don't want music. I don't want music. I don't want music. I don't want music. "
Me: (Thinking, "It isn't music. It is talk radio.")
So how I feel at this moment is how I imagine God must feel about me, except my tantrum is a bit different and only goes on in my head:
Me: "I don't want a c-section. I don't want a c-section. I don't want a c-section. I don't want a c-section."
God: (Turns on talk radio to block out my whining).
Dealing with irrational, self-absorbed creatures can be a real pain.
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