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Like Jerry Springer, Minus the Flying Hair Extensions and F Bombs

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We’ve entered a new phase of parenting, and it’s not an especially helpful or cute phase that you want to scrapbook like “my children will fetch me a cold drink from the refrigerator” or “my children will scratch my back on demand.”


Its incessant fighting and I don’t like it one bit.


I’m just not sure how to handle it without losing my own temper. Perhaps it’s because I never experienced this as a child, being considerably younger than my older siblings. Perhaps it’s because I have two girls. Perhaps it’s just bad luck. Perhaps it’s because we’re all spiking estrogen at the same time and the moon is in retrograde and I have an invisible mental “kick me” mama sticker on my forehead, only visible to my daughters.


Whatever it is? Stinks.


Lately Miss C and Miss A can’t be around each other for more than thirty minutes without a “GIVE ME THAT!” or “THAT’S MINE!”


It’s turned my ability to carry on a normal telephone conversation into a bad episode of Roseanne. Who knew I had an inner redneck woman just waiting to rear her ugly head every time I yell, “STOP IT RIGHT NOW GEHWEUERRRAAAGFGGGHHH!” and have the urge to smash an ice cold can of Bud on my forehead.


Today I’ve been at home with both girls as Miss A has a low-grade fever. The day has been riddled with various snits and spats.


My ability to even type out this post is brought to you by overindulgence in Sponge Bob.

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