Everyone has a time in their life where they wish they could go back knowing what they know now and do things differently.  I have a few of those from all ages, where I was mean and shouldn’t have been, or a sissy and should’ve punched someone in the neck. I wished I had done better in school, or gone into a different major in college.  Mostly I would just like to go back and grab my more fit 21-year-old body and bring it back with me to the present day, because I was really, really stupid back then, and I don’t think young Carrie Lou would listen to this one because “Eww, you’re like, forty!”

Lately, I’ve decided I want to be two again.  I’m not kidding.  I don’t know how that would work having the same knowledge, though, because I would have to follow the rules and not be able to communicate like I do now. There has to be rules, you see. I can’t just go back to being two and talk like my forty-year old self.  It would freak my parents out suddenly discussing politics, religion, the best way to brine a chicken, and why Gordon Ramsay can’t stand still and looks off to the side while giving his monologues on Kitchen Nightmares.  Plus, my dad would have sold me to the government for cash in a heartbeat.

Celebrities aside, and they have to pay to be catered to, who else in the world gets as much attention lavished on them?  Who else only has to ask once and has people running to please them?  Toddlers.  Think about it.  A parent’s sole purpose is trying to make sure that the toddler doesn’t have a more epic meltdown than the day before.  You’re always trying to think of new ways to entertain them, make new foods to tickle their palates, buy or find new toys to teach them, and slowly watch the furniture you paid for with blood, sweat, and tears get chewed, spit, drooled, kicked, and licked on.

Who else can kick you, punch you, pull your hair, scream at you in decibel levels that make you able to hear dog whistles after the fourth time, hit you, jump on you, pee on you, and poop on you without getting the police called on them?  Toddlers.

Who else can grab all their toys and throw them at you in a fit of rage, run into the kitchen and grab all the pans and clang them together in glee or anger, flush your makeup down the toilet with a smirk on their face, rip all of your just folded clothes out of the hamper and throw them on the floor, and throw food you just made for them all over the table without you breaking up with them? Children.

While they are doing these things to you, you need to swallow your pride, anger, and frustration and think of creative ways to divert their ire so as not to be physically abused by these little Hobbits, and I don’t care what anyone says, two-year olds kick HARD.  It’s hard trying to placate these little beings who have no idea what they want, and if they do know, can’t tell you, or they are trying to tell you, but you’re obviously too dumb to understand the first time you hear a muffled “dums ba-down how sayers” means: “Why, mother dear, I would love the opportunity to go back downstairs and play the drum set that I played earlier in the afternoon.”

After all this, and you’re sitting naked in a corner rocking yourself, sucking on both thumbs, wondering what you did to deserve this, your children come up to you and yell: “Mama, WUV YOU! HUG!” and give you the sweetest, warmest, stickiest hug you’ve ever had.

I call this the Magic Eraser.  Good thing kids are cute, and new awesome things they do (that don’t cause me to bruise) make me forget the twenty-five minute tantrum one just had a few minutes ago because I moved two inches to the right on the couch when he wanted me to sit on the left.

Still, while I know my mom did the same for me, but I’m POSITIVE I was an angel (I’ve been told this, I’m not making it up) I don’t remember it.  I don’t have the knowledge of someone jumping up to address my every need, or trying to anticipate the slightest mood change and be ready with cookies, or giving in to everything I want so I don’t get mad.  I don’t know if I would really want that now, though, as nice as it sounds, it would just mean that people were afraid of me, and I think I’ll just save that for my nineties when I’m too old to give a darn.

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