Three is NOT the magic number.

We are hurtling towards her third birthday and while I constantly wish she'd stop growing so quickly, a large part of me is wishing away age 3. They call it the terrible twos for a perfectly good reason, because it's fucking awful. But it passes, it really does pass. And is replaced by the fucking-god-awful-I-can't-believe-this-is-happening-to-me-why-do-they-not-tell-you-about-it monstrous threes.

No, Lil isn't three yet but she entered the terrible two's phase around this time last year so it's pretty standard that HERE WE ARE AGAIN, knee deep in tantrum bullshit. And let me tell you something, it's on a whole other level to the nasty two's. Oh yes.

Like butter wouldn't melt. Pj's from here.

This time around, however, the tantrums are limited(!) to when it's the three of us. At the weekend when we are supposed to be spending lovely family time together. Well it ain't so lovely. In fact it's so not lovely that today I felt like throwing myself off a bridge. But not before taking a handful of diazepam washed down with neat vodka. 100% proof. It was awful. Awful. I went to the gym once we were home and ruined myself. I ache so bad and usually that feeling is reserved for the next morning, so bad that I want to vomit.

But this horrendous weekend has taught me something. If she can't be nice when we are all together at the weekend, the weekends will have to be spent apart. As in I disappear for the weekend. Alone, without child.

Now there's a thought.