It is New Year's Eve. With a two-year-old and an eight-month-old, you can understand that New Year's Eve consists of a steak dinner at home after bedtime, a sip of bubbly whenever we decide it's midnight, and a VERY chaste kiss so as to avoid any extra "blessings" in the new year. However the bananas came long before dinner.
Perhaps it is the snow or several days at home with the WHOLE family, but John Ross has a terrible case of cabin-fever. Like I've never seen before. It is something out of my nightmares. After 3 time-outs, one swat on the tush, and several talkings to, my son was still riding his sister, stealing toys, and biting me.
And that is when he found me. Kevin found me in the mama fetal position. For those of you unfamiliar with this position it includes some version of sitting on the floor (in my case on the stool in the kitchen), banana in hand, my face nose first in a ramekin full of melted chocolate.
The last words I remember saying before sitting down to post this are, "I'm done. It's over. You need to get in there and wrestle with your son! He needs to be put in his place by an alpha dog that is clearly NOT his mama!!!"
Point being, none of us are perfect. My greatest health-concious will-power could not overcome the pressures of a completely unrelated mama-meltdown. It happens. And I will enjoy my steak, potatoes, and mushrooms with no more guilt than before the bananas incident. That is, if I make it there. My daughter is currently practicing pat-a-cake with my netbook cord in hand...