Maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. Maybe my own ineptitude with motherhood and dealing with toddlers is truly coming to a head. Seriously, that’s what I feel like is going on around here. Sugar to shiggity in .6 seconds. That’s about how long it takes to go from a quintessential slice of butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-their-mouths wholesome children to straight up Children of the Corn (i.e. slam crazy). In a single instant, we swing from one extreme to the other . All of this pendulous mood swinging often finds me with my mouth slightly open, gaping in disbelief at how fast and how far we have fallen.

The weather has been kind of mild lately, and we’ve been taking advantage of it by spending some quality time in the front yard. I’ll break out some balls, bubbles and some sidewalk chalk and let the girls go to town. Mo likes to sprawl out and pretend she’s Georgia O’Keefe, drawing massive swirls and whirls that somehow come together to form *sigh* Cinderella. Co, on the other hand, will attempt to blow bubbles by putting the entire wand into her mouth and then. . .inhaling. I’m surprised that when she breaks wind, we don’t see the bubbles on the back end. And yet, despite all of this slice of suburban bliss, the perfect storm brews close to the surface. Let’s say Co runs over to see what Mo is up to and in her unsteady toddler gate, trips and faceplants, spilling bubble solution on Mo and her chalk drawing. So now we’ve got skinned knees, howling children, a bubble solution slick sidewalk, shoving from Mo, slapping from Co and me, sitting on the front stoop wondering how or if I can neutralize it as fast as it took to disintegrate.

There are times when my attempts to be even-handed, fair, even democratic end up boomeranging back in my face with (in my anal retentive opinion) disastrous results. Every morning, our routine is the same: up at 7am, breakfast, upstairs to wash up, brush teeth, do hair by 7:45, a little free play time (i.e. Mommy checks the email/weather) until 8:25 and then out the door. Usually, we execute this routine sans issue, but there are days and then there are days. Mo is at the point where she can strip herself of her pj’s, put on clean drawers and socks, and get her dress over her head without incident. Co, on the other hand, is still diapered, up on the changing table while I wrangle undershirts and such over her head. Inevitably, Mo’s plaintive wail for assistance comes when I’ve got Co undiapered and semi-slathered in Desitin. I implore Mo to wait until I am finished with what I am doing and then I will help her. Meryl Streep never did melodrama better — Mo comes shuffling into the room, completely naked save a ‘do rag, head tucked down so her chin is practically to her knees, oozing pitifulness and whispering, “Now I’ll never be able to get dressed.” Seriously? I didn’t know I was a member of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

Then there are the times when the girls are playing dress up together or are coloring together and someone (usually Co) decides to play with something that someone else (usually Mo) has earmarked for later use. Yes, you know how it is; the child is playing happily with one toy, another child comes in and picks up a totally different toy and it is that object that the first child must now have. Right. NOW. The fight ensues, the tantrum brews and spills out and Mommy is left eyeballing the clock to see how much longer until Daddy comes home/bedtime/Max and Ruby comes on/it would be totally acceptable to have a glass of wine (it’s 5 o’clock somewhere).

I think I would feel like I had a better handle on things if I could soothe and calm them more rapidly. When Mo gets a head of steam up, she throws her head back, opens her mouth, and hollers. I swear I can see where her cardiac sphincter connects to the entrance of her stomach. Of course, that would necessitate being able to withstand her banshee like screaming to get close enough, but you see what I mean. Co, on the other hand, well, she’s a silent crier. She takes in a gigantic amount of air, opens her mouth and nothing comes out. She’s crying so hard she has completely shut down the mechanism to make noise. And once the air is depleted, then we get convulsive sobbing. It’s like the death scene in Terminator 2 when Miles Dyson keeps gasping for air. . .and keeps gasping for air. . .and keeps gasping for air. And. Keeps.Gasping.For.Air.

I feel like a ping pong ball bouncing back and forth between these flame ups, dust ups, and fall-outs. And then, I witness something completely miraculous.

Scene: After breakfast, clearing the table. Mom is washing dishes, girls are standing around being girls.

Mom: Mo, please put your milk in the fridge.

Mo: Okay, Mom. (opens fridge, goes back to table for milk, puts milk in fridge, leaves door open) Co, want me to put your milk in the fridge, too?

Co: (picking up stray Cheeri-o’s off the floor and putting them in her mouth) ‘kay!

Mo: (grabs sippy cup and puts it in fridge, closes door)

Co: Nank you, Noggin.

Mo: You’re welcome.

Sisters hug. End Scene.

It’s a reprieve like this that keeps me going. Well, at least keeps me going for another .6 seconds.