Just got Who Put the B in Ballyhoo from Amazon. I was making an order and thought I’d get something for the kid, and this has been on his wishlist ever since I saw it recced on (the sadly now defunct) Lucky Oliver.

Oh my god, this book rocks. It’s got circus freaks! Sideshows! The Hilton sisters! (Not those Hilton sisters. The other ones.) It’s like they wrote it just for me!

Er, and the kid likes it, too.

So I suddenly and unexpectedly found myself with the afternoon off. Hooray, I said (I’m pretty sure all-caps were employed as well), I totally needed an afternoon off, if by “off” you mean “doing laundry, replying to work emails, cleaning the house and dealing with a two and a half year old who refuses to eat.” Because, yes!

And the kid, he’s such the icing on the proverbial two year old cake. He wanted a granola bar. I suggested that mac and cheese might be more appropriate for lunch. He SCREAMED NONSTOP FOR 38 MINUTES. (Yes, I timed it.) Then took a break. Then saw me eating my mac and cheese and screamed some more. Then – finally – agreed to a pb&j…of which he consumed three bites. And then asked for a granola bar.

This is comedy gold, people.

I had grandiose dreams of taking the kid to the park, having one of those idyllic mom and baby experiences that one sees in magazines and commercials for Happy Meals, but now I’m exhausted, and cranky, and full of angst, and any park-going experience would resemble one of those other commercials, the ones involving Calgon and pleas to be taken away.

So instead I’m going to fold laundry and wish I had some vodka in the freezer while the kid (apparently) empties out every single bloody toy bin in the living room.

(Oh, what, you were expecting something funnier than this? Pfft.)

I always imagined that once I had kids I’d morph smoothly into some sort of calm, Earth Mother-y type. You know the type, right? The sort of mom who always has a story or a song and knows just the right thing to say, both to little ones and their parents. (In retrospect, this should have sent up a warning flag, because since when do I know the right thing to say to anyone?)

I was well on my way pre-baby, actually. I’ve always wanted kids, so I jumped at any opportunity to hang out with my friends with little ones. I was always volunteering to babysit, hanging out with the toddler set at parties, what have you. Back then, it was the easiest thing in the world for me to gauge a toddler’s emotional state and figure out what they needed to be happy.

And then I had my kid. I get my kid. I get his moods, his needs, his sleepy face and his fake cry. I know how long he needs to sit with me when we go to a new place before he’s ready to run in and play with the other kids. I can tell when he’s refusing food because he’s not hungry and when it’s just out of frustration with something else.

But other people’s kids? Forget about it. I feel like I’ve suddenly become one of those people who think kids (while cute and charming) are baffling, inscrutable creatures. You there! Why are you crying? What’s the – oh. Right. That’s just how you react to loud noises. Fine then, maybe you want – no? Okay. Tell you what, I’ll just be in the other room.

It’s like having a kid of my own ruined me for other people’s children. It’s sad, really.

You know, I was going to post something substantive and clever, but then I realized that I left the diapers at home. The office is now somewhat…odoriferous. Thusly, I leave you with these three things:

1. I posted a new video rant – scroll down if you’re on my site, or go see it on Viddler, or look for it in your rss feed or whatever. Or ignore it completely. So many options! (Note: it looks like Viddler’s having some issues, so hang tight if you can’t see the video & try again later.)(Seems to be back up now…)

2. Is Russel T. Davies the UK’s answer to Joss Whedon? Discuss.

3. I have 61,300 words on my book. Who wants to make guesses on how many words I’ll cut in this round of edits? Winner gets to be a background character.

Off I go to decontaminate the toddler. Here’s hoping we have the elevator to ourselves!

I was picking the kid up from Not So’s office (he freaking LOVES it there, and Not So is lucky enough to work someplace that allows the occasional kid afternoon), and as we walked to the door Not So said his usual “I love you! Have a good day!” Ellison turned and said “I yove you! Have day!”

OMG DYING OF TEH CUTE.

Of course, he has still never said he yoves me, despite my persistent and varied exhortations. I even tried in the elevator on the way out of the office; a casual “Oh hey Ellison? I love you,” was, as usual, completely ignored. Sigh.

Still. So cute. “Have day!” Heeeeeeee.

Not So is at SXSWi. I? Am not. He promises to get swag for me, though. Swag makes everything okay, even seven straight days of solo parenting.

Which is not as bad as all that, actually – Not So has been gone since Thursday morning, and today was kind of okay, as far as days go. (Note that I am skipping merrily over Thursday and Friday. This is not unintentional.) The kid and I went for a walk, did a little shopping…and before you get all eye-roll, keep in mind that my kid? LOVES to shop. Seriously. If we walk by the mall and don’t go in, he will throw himself toward the door with all his strength, wailing like we’re killing him. He is a weird kid. But yes, so, we shopped, and then we came home and he actually ate food, and then he took a marathon nap. Good day!

I had this ridiculous idea that I’d be able to get some writing done while Not So was away, but either all my writing talent has dried up or I just don’t have the wherewithal to concentrate when I am On Call. Which is…lame, right? How many single moms can produce an amazing array of matching words while toddler-wrangling? Anne Lamott comes to mind, but that’s just because of Operating Instructions; other moms do it all the time. Other moms, but not me. I feel so scattered and kind of brain-dead, and everything I’ve written in the past couple of days has been flat as week-old soda. (I do not say “pop.” This is because my parents raised me right.)(Shush, you can recognize hyperbole when you see it.)

The house, though, is quite clean, and I’ve taken two (two!) baths today, so all is not doom and gloom at chez Cranky. I miss Not So, and Ellison’s having a hard time sleeping, but we’re good. It’s taking a lot of energy for me to make progress on the projects we’ve got deadlining for work, but part of that is just that we got a new desk at the house – and, while I love it unreasonably and it totally serves its purpose (namely, to make the damned computer less of a focal point so I don’t spend my every waking moment on it), it’s not exactly conducive to marathon work sessions. Then again, neither is the toddler. Good thing we have an office!

Next year, I am totally going to SXSW, though. Even if the kid has to come with us.

I had heard about the Terrible Twos. They’re old wives’ tale quaint and antiquated, like when people would tell me not to reach above my head when I was pregnant. Hee, I thought. Surely my kid will sail on through his second year with his sunny disposition intact, and then we can be those annoying parents who are all “Oh, terrible twos? No, we didn’t have any of that.”

Then we spent the whole day with a toddler who looked like this (in varying stages of breakdown):

Tantrum that lasted a whole day? Check! Falling apart when I asked him if he wanted a sandwich? Check! Screaming and flailing when we told him that no, we would not be going to daddy’s office because we were, in fact, with daddy at the time (and the office was closed)? OMG WHY DO YOU HATE BABIES??

He finally took a nap, after literally screaming himself into exhaustion. Have I mentioned that we live in an apartment? I can only imagine the degree to which our neighbors loathe us right now.

So, yes. Terrible Twos? Not so much an old wives’ tale. Or maybe it was because I lifted my arms above my head before he was born…