Don’t let that cute, whipped cream covered face fool you.

Before I go on, the blogging community requires that I mention this disclaimer:

DISCLAIMER:  I love my children (probably more than you love yours) and think the world of them.

But…

My daughter has turned into a monster.  She has her moments of pure innocence and gentleness, sure.  But most of the time, she acts like a complete asshole.

We went through this stage with Finn when he was about this age, and it wasn’t until Alice started her round that we realized Finny’s had ended quite some time ago. For the most part, Finn has developed into a very nice young man.  He is rambunctious, doesn’t always listen and has the (slightly more than) occasional tantrum, but he is generally nice to people and doesn’t act like a little fucker simply for the sake of acting like a little fucker anymore.

Oh, lord…  She is saying these things about her children!  Calling them horrible names; cuss words, even!  How could a woman ever think such things about the  cherubs that burst their way from her very own uterus, causing sleep deprivation, memory loss, pain, saggy boobs, memory loss and lack of cultural awareness?

Most sane individuals would call this “the terrible twos.”  I choose to call it what it is.  And while your children probably were never assholes (and eat only a gluten-free, free range, organic diet 100% of the time and have never laid eyes on a McNugget, battery operated toy or a television screen), mine certainly have been in their short lives.  I’ve read my fair share of compassionate parenting blogs and no one seems to want to admit that children are being complete pricks for no other reason than they can.

“Mommy.  Peee-you.  You farted.  Ewww.”  She gives me a look of disgust that would make Gary Busey run for cover.

Seriously?  Now she is blaming me for her flatulence?  Where did she pick this up?  I can be immature at times, but it isn’t like I’m gonna get into a school yard brawl about who farted.  I have better, more adult things to do than fight over whose stench permeates her delicate nostrils.

“I most certainly did not!  Don’t blame me for that!  I wasn’t the one who broke into the pantry and ate three fistfuls of dried apricots!”

Well, most of the time I have more adult things to do.

My sweet little angel, what have you become?  One minute you are a little peanut, snuggled in my arms as I rocked you to sleep…  The next moment you are trying to flog the dog with your princess wand (which I’ve learned is really nothing more than a sword for girls) and pull Finn’s hair because his feet touched yours.  Heaven forbid anyone in this house would want to take a shower without your brow-knitted scowl demanding that you also be included.  If we refuse, you lapse into a foot-stomping, teeth-gnashing flail fest.  Punching the iPad?  Shoving your plate on the floor because the strawberries are cut up?

Lady, I am damn particular about my food as well, but I do not negotiate with terrorists.

I get it, I get it.  She is testing her boundaries…  Trying to find her place in our little family unit.  Yes, that is great.  But blaming me when she farts?  Really?

After Nathan tucked her in the other night, she gave him a kiss.  “I love you, little lady,” he tells her.

“I love you, too, Daddy.”  Cue the heart-melting…  “Now go.”  She rolls over, sticks her thumb in her mouth and asks for me.

See?  Asshole, I tell you.

But, at the end of the day, she’s our little asshole.  And truth be told, she is very much her mother’s daughter.  If it means we come to blows over strawberries diced into manageably sized pieces, so be it.  From one a-hole to another, I love you, Al.