This weekend. It was hard. And last week. That was hard too. I’ve been dealing with a lot of no-fun emotional yuck, and on top of all that, Zibbit is 2 1/2. I shouldn’t have to say anything else. All I have to say is that she’s 2 1/2 and that should be enough to make you all say, “Oh, dude, we didn’t realize. I’m so sorry. How’re you holding up?”

When you have a newborn, everyone’s always asking you how things are going. Are you getting any sleep? How is the breastfeeding going? Are your stitches healing ok? Everyone is so concerned and willing to listen to your gripes about blocked ducts and colic. It’s such a shock, to your body and your way of life, to give birth. That tiny little person creates a massive upheaval in your schedule and priorities. It’s hard. And exhausting. Everyone tells you things will get easier as your baby gets older. And that is the meanest, most horribly malicious lie you will ever hear in your entire life.

I would like to find each and every one of those people who told me things would get easier, that we would adjust, and stick them in a room with this demon who used to be my child for an hour. Just one hour and they will be begging me for mercy, offering me money and diamonds and yachts, anything I want if I would please for the love of all that is good and holy just let them leave.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter very much. And I haven’t called for an exorcism yet. Although I’ve come close. The kid will not wear clothes anymore. She will not eat. She will scream bloody murder for chocolate every day at six am, and shoot death daggers from her eyes if you even so much as suggest a diaper change. She will also whack you in the eye with her binky if you ask her nicely to please stop licking your face and tell you to “leave me ‘lone” when you try to kiss her goodnight. She will demand that you read her a book while at the same time refusing to let you look at the page to see the frickin words. She will shriek like a dying raccoon when you put her into the bathtub and then double the volume when you try to get her out. And then, when you’re just about to throw yourself from the roof to make it all end, she’ll come to you out of the blue and give you giant sloppy kisses while telling you how much she loves you. I feel like I’m living with an alcoholic. The inconsistency is making me crazy. I never know what’s going to set her off. Am I enabling her when I let her wear nothing but shoes to bed? Is there an Al-Anon for parents of 2 1/2 year olds?

And don’t you dare tell me that things will get easier. I just might have to hurt you.