Hippos Are Not for Hitting!

No, you may not take that as a title for a children’s book; it’s mine.

Yesterday, nearly-two Guppy demonstrated some of the oppositional behavior he’s learned from his big brother Drake. I did something that displeased him (oh, like trying to get him out of an overly wet diaper, or picking him up when he wanted to be down or vice versa, or some other heinous crime) and he smacked me in the face. With a hippo. So hard that he knocked one of my eyeglass lenses out. And they’re my old eyeglasses, because he already damaged my best, most attractive, very expensive, pre-kid pair.

To add further insult to the pile of injury, that hippo used to be worth a lot of money, and yet I chose to give it to him to chew on and snuggle instead of selling it on Ebay.

It’s incidents like this that come to mind when people gush romantically over how joyful motherhood is. Rubbish. It’s hard work, frequently irritating, often menial, yet periodically rewarding. Like I said: work.

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