Does My Toddler Secretly Have Special Forces Training?

istock_000017246699xsmall.jpg

I’ve had ten months to ponder why my third child, my cherubic faced little girl, my last child is such a jerk. 

Gasp, how could I say that? How could I call my adorable, chubby, babe such a name?  

Desperation, perhaps. Or exhaustion – yes indeed.  My youngest has successfully wreaked havoc on my sleep patterns for so long, that I can longer take it. Forget the end of my rope. Or paddling with no oars. I’m so far up the creek without a paddle that I’ve drifted out into the Pacific.

My newest theory that I’m giving serious consideration to is that she may have connections to MI-5 or  Navy Seals.  There’s no way she can be working alone anymore.  After ten months she’s wearing me down.  She’s managed to ravage my brain with incoherent thoughts and hallucinations; just this morning I thought an elastic band on the bathroom floor was a worm.  I’ve also started thinking I look skinny – this is how delusional I’m becoming.

I’ve been researching Special Forces units, and Vanity Fair wrote an interesting article on the topic.  By definition, she is not like an American commando unit “which relies on brute strength, stamina, and sophisticated weaponry.” She is more like the Israeli Special Forces, “an elite soldier trained in the brutal language of the region”.  Yes – this is my daughter.  She knows her opponent well (her mother) and knows the region – namely her crib, our house and the car.  She knows how to blend in with the “regular population” and her ability to think outside the box, and keep me on my toes is outstanding, well beyond her age.

I would liken my daughter’s approach to taking me down to water torture, only she cries.  A little bit, and then she stops, then a little more.  Fed, rested and dry–why is it you still cry? (oh, I’m getting confused, this is an article – not poetry).  It doesn’t matter if all the aforementioned are done, she will still let you know with intermittent squawks that she needs more attention.  I’ve thought, maybe I don’t hold her enough.  But my sister swears that I never put her down.  I feel like a marsupial; my stretched-out stomach could double as a pouch (oh, there’s the upside to that loose skin).  Life would be easier with her permanently attached to my hips.

 I’ve lost my mind, and am officially exhausted.  Next up is weight gain (which will happen because of my constant carb loading).  Her mission will then be complete when I’m rendered too chubby, too b*tchy and delusional to be out in public.

I wonder how many elite babies like her exist.  I suppose I should start demanding that everyone who comes in contact with my youngest have a background check done.  I’ve decided to treat the first ten months like battles in war:  I’ve lost, admittedly, but the war is not over sweet child….  

Leave a Reply