On the off-chance that I raise a teenage-girl who one day mouths-off when I set a boundary (denying her request to go to an 11PM showing of some weirdo movie with some shady character who drives some rusty junker) and then subsequently questions my love for her, I want to remind her of today…of July 30th, 2015.

The day when she crumbled her granola bar all over herself and her high chair, picking out all the chocolate chips and discarding the rest through her hair.

The day when she dumped raisins all over the floor because she had managed to pry them out of the “supposed-to-be-baby-proofed-cupboard.”

The day when she stuffed her mouth full of said raisins at 9:30AM and then puked them all over the floor and my feet.

The day when she fell apart at the park (20 minutes in), insisting that I carry her in 92 degree weather while I was dripping sweat and climbing tunnels with her brother.

The day when she screamed her bloody head off because I wouldn’t let her drink my entire Venti-iced coffee at the grocery store.

The day when she pooped up her back and her onesie and then threw a fit while I was trying to clean her, getting poop all over the recently-cleaned changing pad.

The day when she threw a ridiculous tantrum every 8 minutes (no lie) because she couldn’t open the cell phone that she had just closed.

The day when she climbed up her brother’s bunk-bed ladder and was hanging by a toenail when I heard her shrieking.

The day when she would scream, “Ma! Ma! Ma!” at the top of her lungs because she had gotten herself into a cardboard box that she couldn’t get out of…like 37 times.

The day when she tried to eat an entire bag of her brother’s Nerf ammunition, lobbing off the rubber tops with her teeth.

The day when she only napped for 53 minutes.

The day when she pulled back the shower curtain without my knowledge and flooded the bathroom floor.

The day when she ripped apart my pantry shelves, dragging the spice containers and the seasoning packets and everything else that you can imagine would be on a pantry shelf, while I attempted to fold her laundry (ya know…the poop-filled onesie and the poop-laden changing pad!!!).

The day when she tried to escape out the front door and was blazing-mad that I tried to keep her from wandering the four-lane road in front of our house.

The day when she tried to rip off part of the door jamb.

The day when she stuffed her mouth full of goldfish crackers at 4:30 PM and then puked them all over my favorite, living-room blanket.

The day when she did ALL THE THINGS. 

Yes, I imagine there will be a day when I will want to remind her of today…of the day that I sacrificially loved and cared for her…and didn’t kill her.


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