Mommy meltdown

The Huffington Post's comedy writers just hit one out of Sarcasm Field: "Mommy Meltdowns: Has It Happened To You?"

Gee, not since about 8:45 this morning, around the same time that I last saw my child.

Things we have argued about in the last 48 hours:

• How you spell "pretty" 
• Milk: just white pee or reputedly nutritious fluid coming from quite another body part?
• Whether "LEGO" stands for "Let Everything Get Out"
• Whether it's necessary to make sure your "boy bits" are still hanging there by squeezing them every 25 seconds
• That fart song is hilarious: yes or no?
• Daddy is smarter than Mommy: yes or no?
• Nazi? Nasty? Indiana Jones says "Nasty." So Mommy is probably wrong.
• Whether there are two "r"s in "February"--or Febooary, depending on which side you take

I've been reading books on the adolescent brain as part of the homework for a writing class I'm taking through UCLA Extension, and I'm more frightened now than I've ever been in my whole life. If dealing with a 7yo is this frustrating, what on earth will I do when, 10 years from now when I am approaching 60, I have to cope with a big hairy bad-ass 17yo?

At which point, the Baroness Schraeder appears like a silk-swaddled Great Gazoo and purrs:

"Darling, haven't you ever heard of a delightful little thing called boarding school?"

Indeed I have, Baroness, my pet. Indeed I have. Sometimes, at around 9.45pm, when Kid has finally lost his long and vocal battle with sleep, I lie quietly on the couch and chant: Ashbury, Shawnigan, St Andrews College, over and over again, whilst flipping the pages of the dog-eared brochures. That, and the gin fizz, sustains me.