Let's not repeat this day.

I will ramble, but it's my blog and I feel like rambling.

My patience and aptitude as a parent was tested today. My darling Monkey is finally showing signs of the "terrible twos". I had to take her along to a meeting this morning. She managed to talk throughout. She has been talking non-stop for at least three weeks. She isn't bad, she just asks volumes of questions and involves herself in conversations. Luckily, for the moment, most adults we encounter seem to think it is charming and precocious. She has some sort of pheromone or evil psychic mind ray that affects rational adults in close proximity. Strangers come up to us and ogle her. Old women bring her handmade gifts and offer her candy.

She talked through my meeting. She talked through lunch. She talked through our trip to the library. She talked while she played at the playground. She prattled on in her carseat all the way home. She then refused to pick up her toys. I wouldn't let her watch her cartoons until we put the toys away. Here is where the battle of wills began. She sat on the couch and glared at me. She told me not to touch her toys. I ignored her glare and continued to clean. Finally she smacked her hands down on the couch and said, "Dammit!" She then stormed to her room and slammed the door. I am not looking forward to the teen years. My mother would call it poetic justice.

Now comes the part of the day that we cannot tell my mother about. Mom, if for some reason you are reading this, stop now.

Big Daddy came home early today as the Monkey was wearing me out. We were both in tears. I was tired. I had a headache. She smelled blood. Big Daddy to the rescue - HA! While his intentions were good, he thought toddler/dog wrestling was a good thing. He is in so much trouble. He is grounded.

I was in the bedroom when I hear a blood-stopping cry and Big Daddy yelling at the dog. The Monkey was screaming and crying and ran to me all covered in tears. Chelsea, the dog, had snapped at her and broke skin on her eyelid and below her eye. Her beautiful grey-blue-green eye. The left one. The guilty dog was hiding and shaking. The non-guilty dog was hiding and shaking. I'm not sure what Big Daddy was doing when the violence occured, but I blame him. Bad Daddy. And I couldn't get a straight story out of any of them. Big Daddy wasn't talking - stammering, not talking. Monkey wasn't talking. The dog wasn't talking.

So we call the doctor. The wound was not stitch worthy, but as a concerned parent I'd like some reassurance that the Monkey won't be disfigured. We are put on hold for 40 minutes. We decide to head to the emergency room. It is a dog bite after all. And I was in quite the over emotional state. On the way to the hospital I blow up at Big Daddy. Big Daddy just keeps driving - apoligizing and driving. I don't deserve him, even if he is the cause of my daughter's disfigurement. We arrive at the hospital only to be told that it will probably be a wait of 4-5 hours if we want to wait, that is. Encouraging.

The Monkey wasn't in pain. She was developing quite the shiner, but was already talking to the nurse about chocolate and her dog who growled at her. The dog is fully vaccinated. Five hours is a long time.

We decided to go eat pizza instead. I'll call the doctor tomorrow. Better yet, I'll call some of my friends and see who they take their kids to here. Put me on hold for 40 minutes when I'm distraught will you? Bastards.

When we got home the Monkey curled up on the floor with Chelsea the Guilty Dog. All sins were forgiven, at least by Monkey. She then had a creamsicle and we read "Olivia Saves the Circus" before bed.

Oh, and we plan on weeding the word "Dammit" from Monkey's vocabulary real soon.