Nobody has the patience to be a parent before they're a parent. It's sort of like saying, "Well, I can't become a professional tennis player because my forearms aren't freakishly asymmetrical."

Thank you, Hec. I now have a mental image of Nadal and Federer signalling to each other across the net like fiddler crabs. (Rafa's still grunting.)

So of course when I go over in trashy clothes to deliver a package to my neighbor, get to meet his girlfriend for the first time. Covered in cathair. Yay first impressions?

I bet being a good enough neighbor to deliver the package when you were obviously busy beat the cat hairs.

Not only have I known consummately patient non-parents, I know excellent tennis players without noticeably asymmetric arms, Hec. I'm not sure your metaphor is sound.

And I also know parents who lack patience to do it well. But, by definition, I guess it's getting done.

I understand people worrying they won't have the patience to parent. Fortunately, Mother Nature has hedged her bets by poisoning us all with hormones to insure some sort of attachment to the little buggers.

Fucking oxytocin.

Fucking oxytocin.

Right? Sara was chattering so nonstop the other day when we were out doing errands, my head literally almost exploded. And then she put her hand in mine and looked up at me and smiled, and poof. Okay, you get to live another few minutes, kiddo.

Bad evening. Grandma and I both got bitten, furniture was thrown, I lost two handsfuls of hair. I put mac's hands in a zip tie because we couldn't control him. Hell.

How am I supposed to work tomorrow? I just want to get in the car and drive until it stops running.

Oh, yeah.

I get:

"Mommomomomomomom!"
"WHAT?"
"I love you! You're the best mommy ever!"
*sigh*

Oh, hell, msbelle. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, msbelle. That's rough.