My daughter is the spawn of Satan. It’s not her fault. One night after my husband went to bed and I fell asleep on the couch, Satan snuck in and impregnated me. I wonder if he stuck around to watch the end of Tiny House Hunters. Up until now, we were awesome at being parents without doing anything. Our son has always been a little sensitive, inquisitive, and kind. I’ll always worry about him and his gentle spirit. Sure, he talks about his wiener and likes to fart on things, but much less than other five-year-olds. This has been the roughest year for him. Yet meltdowns are short lived and usually for one of three reasons; we forgot to feed him, we forgot to put him to bed, or we took the I-pad away. When Betty got here, we were smug bastards ready to humble brag about how easy life was with two kids. We had her during a baby boom at day care. I was the only mom who didn’t send the big one while on maternity leave. Because, of course, I am the best mother on planet earth.

Betty was so tiny, sweet, and quiet. She would purr in her Rock ‘n Play as we went on with our business. I can’t recall the exact month, she has yet to sleep through the night so everything is a blur, but she shed her soft pink sweet baby skin and grew scales, horns, and a tail. wheelchair vans for sale in philadelphiaWe took her to the doctor multiple times thinking she had an ear infection or an alien colonizing her kidneys. chair cover hire oswaldtwistleUntil we were alone and the wind blew in a direction she didn’t like.bean bag chairs las vegas nv She is a pretty woman. lycra chair covers for sale australia

She says how much. This is Betty’s world and we’re all just living in it. I don’t worry about her. Betty can move out tomorrow and will be fine. I don’t always like the volume she uses to assert herself, but people listen.table and chairs wirral If she’s throwing a fit because she wants something logical, of course, we do it. wholesale chiavari chair coversWe would hand her the stuffed animal or give her dinner without the human fire alarm needing to go off. When she’s having a particularly Betty day, we watch a lot of Tele Tubbies. (Which is how her father, Satan, communicates with her.) When she is not screaming she is the best. If they had a baby replace the DosEquis guy, it would be her. She’s the life of parties she’s never attended. I’ve been told this is what keeps her from being kicked out of day care.

Last week we had a girl’s date at the mall. I am constantly on the hunt for drawstring pants that don’t look like they are drawstring pants. We’re on a schedule so I head straight to GAP. Cute, but too expensive for fat pants. My husband needed some more work shirts to leave on the floor, so we did a few laps at JC Penney. I was distracted by the clearance section and grabbed a pair of jeans and a drapey top. She twisted in her stroller to tell me: “Remember last week when you took too long at Tom’s pre-school open house and I ruined that milestone for everyone? I’m about to burn this bitch down.” When the screaming started I considered ditching everything and heading for the door. Is that not what the books tell you to do? But I really wanted that drapey top. I gave her my keys. Sometimes slightly dangerous objects can appease her. She still screamed but at a slightly lower pitch. We strolled over to check out. Before getting in line, I thought I should hold her.

I knew she wouldn’t stop, but it would look like I was doing something. I reached down to grab my darling girl. Allow me to paint a picture. Her hair, the same cut as Nicholas Cage is matted to her head from meat sweats. She stinks like turkey sausage and farts. She has blood smeared on her face and fingers from chomping on my keys. Before we all freak out (Okay that did freak me out.), it’s just a little blood and I was able to wipe off most of it. There was a line. I would never expect anyone to let me cut. I would never ask to budge, not even with a bleeding and screaming offspring in my arms. But if these strangers wanted to spare themselves the cries of an irrational baby, I would certainly take my two items and hurry to the front. They chose to give us dirty looks and talk about us as if we weren’t behind them, screaming, instead. Was one unhelpful and unsolicited comment. Betty didn’t give me the chance to pretend we didn’t hear. A little girl too old to be sitting in a stroller but delightfully quiet kept looking back at Betty and then to her mother with a half-smile.

A nice Indian woman attempted to shake something shiny to soothe her. Now down a cash register with a crowd gathering I tried a different tactic. New to using her legs, Betty loves to walk. I set her down and watched her ruffle butt toddle away. Instantly calm she called out over her shoulder: She was beyond amused with herself playing peek-a-boo behind a pile of polo shirts. She was off to the food court when I scooped her up. Getting a taste of freedom only to have it snatched away awoken something primal in her. She spit and scratched at my face contorting her body into unnatural positions with the sole purpose of being dropped on her head. We joined our stroller back in line. She was too upset to make any sense. I set her down facing a display of Minnie Mouse dolls thinking this might distract her for a bit. She sauntered past and headed for the escalator. An employee stopped her (I was two inches behind her. Mustache in the short-sleeved button down needed to chill out.)

“You need to stay by your mo-” I held her hand and walked her back to our spot in line. She noticed the Minnie Mouse dolls. It was finally our turn. I picked her up and sat her on the counter. We were so close to waking up from this living nightmare. There was no price tag on the jeans. “Did you try these on?” “Because you won’t be able to return these. Are you sure they fit?” Of course, Betty would take his side.My fat ass does indeed fit into those skinny jeans.) Betty continued to hurl obscenities at me as we drove across town in rush hour traffic. I contemplated never leaving the house again. Spending the next 18 years housebound with an asshole baby than an asshole toddler…kid…tween and teen. No. I refuse to let Satan win. She is half mine. We will continue making a scene at Target, the park, Chipotle, and fine retailers everywhere. I love you, Bettyjane. Please don’t murder me in my sleep. Downwind & Droopy Bit: Life’s Embarrassing Moments