Runnin’ this Mutha!

Who is runnin' this mutha?

Lately, Diva has been runnin’ this mutha! She is good most of the day, as am I, but by 3 PM every single day, she slowly turns into a demonic, snarling, terror – straight from the depths of hell. I kid you not. If I’m in the kitchen to turn on the oven, grab a pot out of the cabinet, I can’t even get the refrigerator door open before I hear a crash, water running, or someone screaming. Not even 3.5 minutes can pass without my eyes being on her, or else I am undoing a terrific disaster.  It is ridiculous.

She has begun talking back, blatantly saying “No!” to anything Hubs or I ask, making bad choices, doing the exact opposite of what we ask (and expect), and goes right for “the family jewels” when she is not getting what she wants.  Poor Hubs. Seriously. Not sure why he worries about me getting pregnant, since Diva has all but ruptured his baby maker.

Last night’s meltdown was epic. I was trying to get her to lay still in bed, as it was bedtime, and we were all trying to go to bed. I had positioned my body by laying on her bed so that my weight was on my right hip & elbow, and her thighs were underneath my armpit. Is that clear? I wasn’t physically touching her, but the way I was positioned on top of the comforter, she couldn’t move – much. Just enough to realize she couldn’t get up.  Oh hell no. She screamed at the top of her lungs.  Not just any screams, either.

“Somebody please help me!” she shrieked. She insisted I was crushing her, that she couldn’t feel her stomach or legs, and demanded I get off of her because she couldn’t breathe. Two words: Diva Drama. I let her continue this for about 10 minutes, which seemed like hours. Mind you, the whole time I kept speaking to her just above a whisper that if she would calm down, I would move. When that didn’t work, I moved, and took a hold of her under her armpits with both hands.

I gently picked her up, cradled her in my arms, and pleaded with her to please, please calm down. That went on for about 15 minutes more.  FIFTEEN. LONG. MINUTES. The screaming only got more desperate and out of control. Hubs began begging her to please calm down, and that if she would just calm down, I would let her go.

It ended when I told her if she could tell me what she wanted, without screaming, that I would listen to her, but she must calm down before we could talk. Well, that, and asking her if she wanted to get in the shower with me to help her calm down (she is terrified of the shower, for some reason). At any rate, it worked. She calmed down very quickly. Hubs was pretty amazed. Shocked, really.  He’d never seen her that out of control, or me that IN control.

I am runnin’ this mutha! Me. Me! Not some tantrum-throwing-three-year-old. I’m in control. This is MY house. It is up to me to teach this little savage a shred of civility, and in all honesty, that’s all the civility she has – a tiny shred. Cleaning the house is a pipe dream. Cooking a decent meal is also one of those “would be nice” ideas, like doing something fun on the weekend. Meals are a hit-and-miss. More misses lately, but cleaning . . . well, only while the nanny is here, and that was supposed to be my time to blog, shower, relax, and de-stress so I can be a better mom. Yeah, not so much, at least not lately, as you can tell from the lack of recent blogs. From battling everyone (including yours truly) being sick and/or injured, to taking care of the Christmas aftermath, I just focus on running this house in the 8 short hours a week I have help. I’m in survival mode, and friends, I’m losing. And I’m tired of just trying to survive.

To say I am frazzled is a gross understatement. To think I am burned out is an utterly pathetic disservice to that phrase. I am shot to hell. If I were a car, I’d have bald tires, ripped headliner, tattered seats, backfiring at every acceleration, sputtering black smoke, shaking like a 5.9 quake at idle, and dying at every stop light. Dying, not surviving. This has to stop! And I’m runnin’ this mutha – dammit.

So, what is the answer? Oh, how I have scoured this house for my Super Nanny book (, only to come up short. Thank God for Google, and other parents who have also reached the very end of their rope, too, and I hit a treasure trove of inspiration last night.  I must say, it is not going to be easy, like it was with Boo. This is going to be hard. Damn hard, in fact, and quite possibly, the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, up to this point. As Diva approaches turning 4, she is coming in hot, and it is on me alone to slow down that crashing jet before its landing approach.

Offering choices, teaching consequences, and physically removing her when she is out of control. Work. Mental, physical, and emotional work for me. Consistent & controlled. So, I’m going to take a shower while the nanny is here, right after I publish this, and then I’m off to start putting this new plan into action. Ya’ll, please wish me luck, because I am going to need it. She may not have a curl in the middle of her head, but when she’s good, she is very good, but when she’s bad . . . I just about lose my damn mind.

Peace, ya’ll!

About me

Ever wonder what it’s like to be a southern hot mess? Join me as I slam through life like a bull in a china shop. It’s better if you just go with it.


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May 31, 2017
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May 24, 2017
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April 10, 2017
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March 14, 2017
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November 03, 2016

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