Piggle is at it again; raising hell by means of teething.
I love my child, I really do—at least that’s what I tell myself whenever he starts up with this tooth bullshit. I can’t even begin to express how excited I am for it to be over.
He has eight left to go, four of which are almost out. I’m almost jumping for joy, and I tell anyone who listens that the end is nigh! Of course, I still have the remaining teeth to contend with, and as it would happen, I’ve celebrated the impending finale far too prematurely.
Usually, Piggle turns into a mega-dick just before the teeth cut and just after—with only a day or two’s reprieve in between stages. All hell breaks loose around here, and a calm, peaceful life is only a fantasy I can visit while I take a shit. From random tantrums over absolutely nothing—seriously, he blew his lid because Barney sang the wrong song—to Gandhi-esque eating habits, our life is turned upside down. We live in constant turmoil and Advil-induced stupors, and I can’t pretend that I’ll miss even one iota of it.
So far, this is the absolute worst I’ve ever seen him. I count down the hours until his bed time, so I can sit in a corner and rock back and forth, while clutching my hands to my head in hopes that, by slowly ripping each individual strand of hair from my scalp, I can ease the pain of this torture for myself and for Piggle.
The most frustrating part of all this is that our
aren’t working anymore. It’s possible that the boy has built up a resistance to them because we’ve been using them for a year solid—or maybe he really is just an asshole; either way, I’m ready to tear my own teeth out over all of this.