I have three sidekicks. Their superhero names are Rose, Sara and Kris. Their little baby superpowers involve harassment and nagging, whining, tattling and self-perpetuating drama, mauling of cats and indiscriminate destruction of stuff. A few of their most amazing abilities: The tiny 4 year old girl child is able to runstomp through the house and somehow sound exactly like a rhinoceros gone bratty. My son’s high pitched whining shriek of petulant rage can make my ear drums feel like they’re disintegrating (which they kind of are as I go deaf, and I’m sure that being screamed at for 9 years hasn’t helped). And the most awesome displays of pathos and angst come from my weepy middle child, who will destroy a weak soul utterly with her lovely teary sad Sara feelings.
Three intense children. Three complicated, difficult, complex relationships that rule my life. They are beautiful but goddamn, they wear me the hell out.
They go from this.
To this.
To Crazy Town.
She reached insanity within three pictures.
