It's four fucking thirty and I've lost my mind. All I can think about is wine and bedtime. I want to quit.
Yes, we are right in the middle of the terrible two's, waist deep in shitty moods and screaming and occasional hitting and pure rage. And that's just her. Every day I sit and google flights to Ibiza and New York and hope that I win the Euromillions so I can just fuck off on my own and have some space. I want to scream. MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY I WANT THIS I WANT THAT MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY.
ARRRRRRGH LEAVE ME ALONE.
My head feel fuzzy and my brain hurts from trying to keep her occupied while I work and try to find us a new home as well as researching nurseries and child minders and praying to the house gods that someone snaps this one up pronto before I really lose it and end up being carted off by the mental police.
I want to cry. Sob all over the place and smash plates and then go to sleep for a thousand years. Why is two such a hard age? She's turned in to a monster, a gob foaming, screaching monster. And I just can't be bothered with it most of the time. That's awful isn't it?
WORDS OF WISDOM SOMEBODY, PLEASE. It gets better once they hit three, riiiiiiight?