My three-year old has just hit the prime of the terrible two’s (I guess he waited to make a grand entrance), with the strength of the Hulk, the charm of Hugh Grant, and the speed of Superman. My house is child-proofed for Hannibal Lecter. All kitchen chairs are tied to the table, there are no knick-knacks or picture frames around the house, cleaning supplies are above the sink, any other piece of furniture that can be moved is in storage and we don’t use any knifes, we cut our food with lasers.

The eyes in the back of my head were just not working properly, if they had I am sure I would have seen the little bugger unwrap a bar of soap and flush it down the toilet. I did hear some rumblings and when I got to the bathroom, he threw up his arms and said “I did it Mommy!” as if he just won a gold medal. The wrapper from the soap was on the floor, and that devilish grin told me everything I needed to know. I calmly walked to the phone and called the plumber. After I dialed the plumber and arranged an appointment, I grabbed some water (hoping it would turn into wine, or a beer, or a shot of whiskey) and I took a moment to reflect on the havoc he caused the prior week: he had a liquid lunch of bubbles; made a Picasso with poo; stomped on a bowl of cereal; escaped from the house; ate a ¼ stick of butter; dumped over the garbage can; used his penis as a hose in my living room and chugged milk from the container like a teenager.

And as I pondered this I realized that last week I had gotten a good night sleep every night, exercised, felt great and while he did everything short of bring on a plague of locusts, I was on my A GAME – YES MY A GAME. Can you imagine if I was on my C Game? I’d be tied up in a chair somewhere, with a sock in my mouth! The nickname Master of Disaster is so fitting isn’t it? And my husband wonders why I say I NEED to go for a run.

The A Game means I have to up my energy, courage and strength to put it all on the line. I have to be focused and face my fears in the eye, in this case said three-year old son, and stare him down like a lion does his prey. And as every parent knows it ain’t easy! It’s exhausting to bring your A Game. To me the A Game is when you live in the moment, don’t get side tracked, or multi-task, you have the focus of Superman and the quick wit of Chelsea Handler.

My A Game is not an everyday occurrence; it’s too much work. When I stare down my prey I melt like the Wicked Witch of the West, it’s just too much for any one person to handle, okay, it’s too much for me to handle. When I took my Master of Disaster to the doctor, my kind, wise pediatrician witnessed his super powers first hand and he imparted this wisdom to me: 1) sometimes kids are just bad (nice right?) 2) keep him safe and 3) he’ll probably out-grow this behavior by four. I caught my breath when my child then toppled another tray of medical supplies and with the weight of an over active three-year-old dragging me down, slowly left his office. Oy-to-the-Vey?

For another 12 months, I have to be at the TOP of my GAME. In order to make sure the earth will still rotate on its axis, I must be on my A Game for 730 days straight. That’s impossible, isn’t it? It’s like I have to be the Derek Jeter of Mommy-Land. How the hell am I going to out-play, out-smart and outwit my three year old? (Is CBS going to sue me over that one?) I sigh a heavy sigh and realize that in life, you have to bring your A Game all the time, no matter what you’re doing; laundry, a board meeting, or struggling with a bottle of watered down bleach to get an abstract poop painting off your walls.

And to the A Game, I raise the just confiscated juice box from the Master of Disaster and chant BRING IT ON! B-C & my occasional D Game, you’re going down! Okay, well, maybe not D.O.W.N, but definitely most definitely pushed, like a really hard push. Never fear my A Game is here…well, it’s close, really really close by.