The 2 Year Molars Are Going to Kill Me.

***Disclaimer***

I do love my child.  I love him with every ounce of my being.  He is loving, energetic, independent, hilarious, and so precious. 

 What I do NOT love is the pain his teeth are causing him.  This is a rant against his teeth, not him. 

The 2 year molars are going to kill me.  I'm serious.  Just go ahead and print my death certificate now.  Cause of Death: 2 year molars.  Unfortunately, I'm sure it won't be the first time "2 Year Molars" is listed as the cause of death on a mom's death certificate.  Or at least written on some poor parent's psychiatric evaluation.

If you've tried to have a conversation with me in the past few days, I'm so sorry.  I probably sounded something like this: "Hi! ...mumble mumble...Dr.Pepper...kfslcjshj...tired...dcsjdkn...coffee....help...."
I have spent the past 4 days wearing sweatpants, a sweatshirt, no makeup, dirty ponytail, and slippers.  That's right.  I wore my house shoes around town, people.  Add that to the dazed look and inability to complete a thought, and I'm quite a treat these days.

It all started Monday.  My sweet baby was tired and just not himself.  He couldn't keep his hands out of his mouth and was drooling like crazy, so I figured he was just teething.  No big deal, we've done this before. He'll be in slight pain for a day, then back to his sweet self.   He's a snapshot of the past few days:

He wakes up at his usual early time, then walks around the house and screams for about 45 minutes.  He wants out of his crib, but doesn't want me to pick him up to get him out.  He wants oatmeal for breakfast, but none of the packages of oatmeal we have in the cabinet will do.  He wants in his high chair, but screams when he gets in his high chair.  He wants to eat with a spoon.  No, a fork.  No, a spoon.  No, the purple spoon.  No, the yellow spoon.  No, the short yellow spoon.  No, the fork again.    And now he's in time out for throwing his yogurt on the floor.  He's pulling all the books off his shelf and screaming.  He wants a banana, but does not want the peel taken off.  He does not want anyone else to be on the play area at the mall.  There's a sweet and adorable cat, which is all of a sudden terrifying.  Someone looked at him and he has a meltdown.  He wants a book to take to bed with him, but none of the hundreds of books he owns will do.  He's drinking water and spitting it out.  My baby who loves to go to bed all of a sudden cries for 30 minutes, then wakes up throughout the night. He wants to bring his smoothie into the shower.  Sure, whatever man.  Just stop screaming, for the love of all that is pure and holy.  We have watched the same 5 Mickey Mouse Clubhouse episodes over.  And over.  And over.  I literally just walk around humming the theme song under my breath ("It's the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, come inside, it's fun inside, M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E..." )

So when I'm wandering around the streets in my house shoes, singing the Mickey Mouse Hot Dog Dance song, with a vacant stare, I hope you understand.  I just hope whoever finds me is a mom who has also lived through the 2 year molars.  She will just give me a sympathetic smile, pat me on the back, and let me go on my way.  And perhaps offer a bottle glass of wine.