She's testing me.
Well, her, and you know who.
The Big Guy who thought we were a good match for each other.
The one who knows that I am perfectly imperfect for her and she for me.
They're testing me.
I'm being tested.
Did I mention that already?
Sorry for repeating myself.
And who can we thank for that?
The one testing me, of course.
Did you notice?
Thanks for listening.
You see, I have a 3.5-year-old, and I am not sure if she runs her feet or her mouth more, but both tire me the fudge out.
I love my little nugget with all my heart.
And, speaking of hearts, hers is as big as her everyday nonsensical meltdowns.
And that's why mothering a toddler is hard, especially when yours is a pint-sized, over-opinionated, unfiltered, semi-defiant, hilariously honest and cute-beyond-compare, powerhouse.
I don't usually drink wine on weekdays, but tonight, well, I just might pour myself a glass.
She's testing me, and so is He, and though I'm pretty sure the answer doesn't lie in the bottom of a glass of wine, I'm still willing to check.