I love my child, I really do---at least that's what I tell myself whenever he starts up with this tooth bullshit. I can't even begin to express how excited I am for it to be over.
He has eight left to go, four of which are almost out. I'm almost jumping for joy, and I tell anyone who listens that the end is nigh! Of course, I still have the remaining teeth to contend with, and as it would happen, I've celebrated the impending finale far too prematurely
Usually, Piggle turns into a mega-dick just before the teeth cut and just after---with only a day or two's reprieve in between stages. All hell breaks loose around here, and a calm, peaceful life is only a fantasy I can visit while I take a shit. From random tantrums over absolutely nothing---seriously, he blew his lid because Barney sang the wrong song---to Gandhi-esque eating habits, our life is turned upside down. We live in constant turmoil and Advil-induced stupors, and I can't pretend that I'll miss even one iota of it.
So far, this is the absolute worst I've ever seen him. I count down the hours until his bed time, so I can sit in a corner and rock back and forth, while clutching my hands to my head in hopes that, by slowly ripping each individual strand of hair from my scalp, I can ease the pain of this torture for myself and for Piggle.
The most frustrating part of all this is that our tried-and-true teething remedies aren't working anymore. It's possible that the boy has built up a resistance to them because we've been using them for a year solid---or maybe he really is just an asshole; either way, I'm ready to tear my own teeth out over all of this.
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