1-2-3 Tequila!

We have three kids. Whose initials incidentally spell out HAD. As in, I HAD a grasp on sanity before they came around. As in, I HAD no reason to drink a fifth of Patron by noon before the heathens came into my life. As in, I HAD a better sense of style before I started carting around Heffelumps and sippy cups. I love the little ankle biters, but I had no idea how much destruction a miniature Housewife could bring. I thought I could put them up on a shelf when they irritated me. I didn't realize they'd vault off and try to throat punch me.

Yesterday, H (The baby. Well, three year old.) committed acts of destruction usually reserved for coked out rock stars who don't receive the correct fruit basket. In the time it took me to shower, she managed to knock over all the aquarium ornaments and knock the fish food across the floor in a quest to pet a fish, shorted my big screen tv while cleaning it with leave-in conditioner and got three pieces of gum stuck in her hair in an attempt to put it behind her ear Violet Beauregard style. Holy annihilation Batman. This is also the same child who gives me the joy of receiving this kind of feedback from friends and family: "A & D are so sweet Housewife! You're very lucky! That H... well, you can't have everything." She's beautiful and actually pretty sweet herself. Just mischievous like a demon.

Last night we went to a class on 1-2-3 Magic which is this great discipline program that I'm hoping will teach me to quit being a pansy ass and stop negotiating with terrorists. Today is the first day we're trying it out. And by we, I mean me. A & D are at school, so it's just me and H working out the kinks and trying not to drive each other to homicide. The first time we got to 3 and she had to "Take 5" she spent fifteen minutes crying in her room before she was quiet enough to start the timer. She came out chipper and no doors were pulled off the hinges. Whew. We can do this.

The second time I said, "That's one."
She responded, "You won't do it again."
"That's two."
"You won't."
"That's three. Take 5."
And the devil opened the gates of hell and unleashed his fury on my humble little abode. Forty-five minutes that child raged. I retreated to my bathroom since it's the furthest from her room. Was that an earthquake vibrating the walls of my bathroom while I sat on the floor with the fan on full blast, reading Bitter is the New Black? Oh no. The reason plaster was falling on my artfully arranged bangs is because the littlest heretic was kicking her door and walls with her little feet of fury. So much for the sleepless week hubs and I spent painting their room whimsical shades of violet. The kid never calmed down. Oh no, of course not. She started gagging around minute 47 so I went in, only to be greeted by the stench of urine and the sight of one of the ornamental fans from their inherited Geisha dolls shredded on the carpet.
Housewife: 0
H: 2
Family Heirloom: -1

I'm not a completely uncaring bitch, so I scooped up my minion and read a Dora story to help calm her. She's back to being chipper, but she did make a point of chewing me out for not letting her out in time to pee. I explained the required silent part of the time out process, but she still pouted to let me know that I wasn't going to be winning any Cool Mom awards in her lifetime.

Apparently something worked though, because the next time I said, "That's one" she ran as fast as her stubby little legs could carry her to the table to eat her lunch. And I smiled, hoping this meant that I could finally cut back on my afternoon cocktails. So here's a toast to 1-2-3 Magic. May it keep my kid off Ritalin and me out of rehab.