These are the times that try parent's souls.
It is 12:15 in the afternoon and I am drinking black coffee to keep my eyes open. Operation paci-fairy was an utter failure and the kids have turned against us. Nap-time has become lay down in the crib or bed and scream your head off time. Yesterday our house sounded like a scene from "Hostel." Between this and the advent of potty training, the mixture has made for an unstable cocktail that will certainly be lethal to at least one of the opposing sides.
Sailor is young and looks up to her sister. This is to be expected. She is quiet but I know where her allegiance lies. Ruby is really the clever one. I can tell she is playing friendly while plotting the endgame. Her sideways glances as I walk by are telling, looking me up and down scanning for a weakness. I know the end is near, soon she'll come at me in the bonus room with a shank improvised from a puzzle piece. I'll bleed out and her and Sailor will high five and raid the house for all the pacifiers so they can lay them in the center of the room next to my body and roll around in them.
I have nightmares about it. Sometimes she is in a hockey mask holding Sailor's bead roller-coaster menacingly. Other times she rises out of the bathwater like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. I want it over. I want to give in, recant my opinions on this change and bow to my children and their addiction to silicone and hard plastic. Then I remember that together, they are barely one sixth my weight and are small. Small but fast. I may have a chance after all.
If nothing is posted by the end of the week, you'll know they have won and I've moved on to the great garage in the sky. Always remember, my intentions were pure.