I'm THIS CLOSE to busting a cap in his ass

Jax, Jax, Jax.


This child is an amazing collaboration of all things whimsical, charming and energetic. And I'm ready to kill him. Or give him away. Or just runaway, screaming banshee, pulling-my-hair-out stark-naked-running.


Did I tell you we took away the binky a week ago? Did I tell you it's more He (as in Shawn) than We, and that Me is very ready to give it back???? Well, I am. No surprise there -- I have so much lacking in the discipline/willpower department, whereas Shawn is the Hitler of Stick-with-it-ness. Of course he doesn't eat breathe and drink Jax 24/7 the way I do, but he does suffer, and yet, still he will.not.budge. So in that regard, I suppose the title could refer to him as well.


My keen parenting eye has noticed that lately the majority of Jax's Major Meltdowns occur when he's tired but refuses to admit it. Were the binky still in the picture, nap and bed time would be a wonderful, peaceful time in our house, but now that we've abolished it and all it's kind, nap and bed time are the bane of my existence.


Simply put, there is no sleep. Especially when Ryan is around. Just that little extra bit of distraction fuels his fire, giving him longer, more prolific tantrums than normal, the kind that leave me sobbing in a heap on the floor while he's banging his everything on the wall of the room in which I'm holding him prisoner.


In times like these, where else is a desperate mother to turn? Why, to everyone's fave Brit, Supernanny. I was so excited this week to see that one of the children she was helping had trouble going to bed and staying in bed at night, and quickly put her technique to work. It took some time, but by 11:30 on Wednesday night, Jax was sound asleep in his bed.


Until 2 am when he awoke in a fit resembling a Night Terror and I went to work again trying be firm, but gentle, with an English lilt to boot.


Didn't work. Maybe because by 3 am I was ready to give up, maybe because he's the spawn of Satan. Either way, once again, no one in our family is sleeping, and as much as I'm told to "ride it out" and that it's "just a phase", when you're severely sleep deprived trying to remain the only rational (conscious) human being in the house is a little like trying to charm a snake with a bowl of cheerios.


Oh how I wish I had the stamina of those irritating folks who live by the motto, "I'll sleep when I'm dead," rather than feeling like a member of the Walking Dead.


Not only that, but my calm, rational approaches to these bouts of rage have left me with war wounds all over my hands, arms and face. (Yes, I cut his nails, but not to the point that they bleed, which is how short they'd have to be to not be considered deadly weapons.) Nothing like having miniature paper-cut like scars all over your dry, cracking, worn hands in the middle of January. You want birth control? Stick your face and hands in shards of glass, shake 'em around a bit, and that's what it's like having a toddler boy. Planned Parenting 101.


Just today, after Jax threw one of his yelling, kicking, scratching fits (it was naptime) while visiting my mom, she commented, "Remember how you used to say you wanted 5 boys?"


"Oh, I got my 5 boys. God just got all economical on me and rolled them up into one."


And now they're pissed and taking it out on me.