Parenting is tough. It wears on your nerves, your nails, and your native intelligence. I lose more brain cells every day.

I swore I’d never say “Because I said so” to my kids (Does thinking it count?). So when my little loves asks me why I’m torturing them by making him bath regulary or forbidding her from meeting her bff's internet boyfriend, I tell them:

Because I’m the Meanest Mom in the World, and I have to retain my title.

This is my place to vent. Welcome to my world.

I have a thirteen-year-old daughter, an eleven year old son, and a husband who has my back when it comes to parenting. When we discussed how many children to have, we agreed early on to never let them outnumber us. It's still not a fair fight.

Let’s just say the daughter has authority issues. I knew I was in trouble after we argued and her then five-year-old self got the crayons and drew a picture of me head down in a trash can with my little legs kicking feebly in the air. She can't wait to blow this joint so no one can ever tell her what to do again. She perfected the art of eye rolling at three.

The son. Sigh. I worry about him. He’s a sensitive little soul, and it doesn’t help my daughter thinks his very existence is an insult to her. I can wear him like a necklace. He likes to sit right on top of me most of the time. The mom part of me is glad he still likes to snuggle. The kidney part of me is screaming for salvation. And he’s a bit competitive. The video games cheat, you see. They aren’t fair. His moans of distress when he loses are similar to the howls of a basset hound on crack.

I adore them both.
Still, sometimes blogging it all out doesn't hurt.