Seriously kids, Tiny is completing doing my head in, flipping flap jacks with my brain, making risotto with my mind, turning my intelligence to squid soup.
First we started off with another 12:30am call out. This time Matt had fallen fast asleep so it was me to fend for myself. Darn it. That Tiny sure knows how to screech.
And this morning she rose at the very novel time of 8:30am. Novel for her. Nightmare for the Doctor and I who were attempting to leave the house at 9am sharp.
Thankfully I had to be elsewhere but a babysitter was coming to look after Tiny.
30 minutes after I had left Tiny with the babysitter I receive a text message saying: She's having a massive tantrum. She won't stop crying.
Hey lady - I'm paying YOU to deal with the tantrums. YOU deal with it. Ok not really, but I what am I going to do when I am on the opposite side of the city?
And so it is, tonight, after two million tantrums and the subsequent realisation that the terrible twos really do exist, and they are alive, and very, very well, I find myself perusing photos of Tiny when she was really tiny and only had eyes for her mama. And wasn't scaling the side of her cot. And head butting the floor. And scratching my face. And screeching 'not yours' at me.
Tired? You bet your bottom bippy.
PS - that photo down there is NOT me with a goat. We don't have a goat (and I don't own any scrunchies - PHEW!), but we do have a psycho rabbit.