Oh. mah. gaw. Please pass the Zima.

I'm kidding.

Make it a Bombay Sapphire martini, extra olives, extra dirty. But whatever, a big glass of water and an ibuprofen will do fine. Or even one small square of the couch to myself.

It was one of those high-maintenance toddler days. And that's being diplomatic. Nothing horribly wrong happened. Everyone has all their digits and limbs, no one went to bed crying or hungry. Nothing is broken or torn or written upon (with the exception of the ballpoint pen on the couch Lil E was "accidentally seeing what it would look like, Mommy...sorry, but it was an accident, Mommy. I love you." that is still untouched from last week. I know, I know...hairspray).

Nonetheless, it was a tough one. There was a hacky cough and icky red gooeyness all over the face, arms, forehead and upper lip that I thought for a brief moment was a marker or lipstick before I realized it was Lil E's first nosebleed. There was physically holding the child to the potty until he peed and later, physically making him abandon his comfy spot on the potty (and magazine and toy cars) after 35 minutes and leave. the. bathroom. now.

There was a false alarm potty stop at McDonald's downtown when I was already rushing to a focus group (oh thank ye, Goddess of Market Study Cash in My Hands, you heal most parenting wounds for the small price of listening to some random dude's life story when all we're supposed to be talking about is fucking cell phones). There was a lot "NO!" and a lot more threats about doling out the time outs. And, no shock, there was a lot of TV.

Let me be clear, there was a lot of PBS. Lots of the educational zone-out shows that let me breathe out the frustration and crawl toward the coffee pot. Inside the PBS bubble, though, that nice-looking lady and the hamster (or guinea pig? what is that rodent?) didn't tell Mommy about the Lindsay Lohan rehabonanza (damn!).

I was so tired by the end of the day that when Bruce whooshed in from work just at the time when high-maintenance turns to cuddles and smooches and 24 pounds of ooey, sweet-smelling goodness on my lap, I handed the boy over and said, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." And then I kissed them all a bunch of times and ran to the couch.

So, my friends, I curtsy and promise to tell you more about our county fair experience (on pins and needles, are you?) tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Oh Sweet Mother of Mary in a Sippy Cup, this starts over tomorrow?