at end of my wits
want to fold her up, stamp her
export to China
The wee-er one’s demonic possession is not getting any better. After a day of respite, her head is again spinning on its axis. Her high-pitched shrieks have made us all partially deaf, and alerted Sea World’s dolphins of the impending apocalypse. She will not be comforted. She will not be reasoned with. She will not acquiesce. She will not calm down.
WATA! She shouts. Upon receiving her cup, she throws it to the ground or at my face. WATA! She screams more urgently after this outburst. Same with MANTS! (pants) and OOSH! (shoes). NAK! She demands, reaching for cheddar bunnies, but when she gets her small bowl of bunnies, immediately she throws them on the floor, steps on them and cries NAK NAK! for more.
She will nap for no longer than twenty minutes. She wants to nurse all day. I want to throttle her. The gypsies will not return my phone calls.
The hell is up with this child? SHE IS MAKING ME CRAZY.