So, turning 33 aint so bad. I had a pretty sweet party (aside from that STUPID sore throat thing) wherein I was able to show off my bitchin new remodel and was showered with luxurious gifts from all of my adoring fans. Thank you, thank you my dahlings. I am now the owner of a S-W-E-E-T new iPod, my daughter’s penchant for emotional meltdowns has reached an all time low (listen here for sound of knocking on wood), and my husband is now home for the entire duration of the summer for the first time in 6 years. Hello honey-do list!

Now that I am a mature 33 year old, I feel like it is prime time for me to do something, well, mature. So, I am making a concerted effort to better my parenting skills by reading a book that compares toddlers to neanderthals. According to the author, Stella is in a phase where she is no longer a chimp, but rather, a “knee-high neanderthal,” well on her way to being a “clever cave-kid.” Apparently, her ability to fashion anything into a tool of destruction is akin to her adult ancestors of 2 million years ago. Likewise, her newfound ability to problem-solve cultivates a cockiness that negates the ability to consider any point of view other than their own. I will be clubbed over the head with a wooden block any day now. Oh wait, I already have.

The recommendation for dealing with Betty Rubble involves me grunting single syllable words at her in order to make her feel like her feelings are being acknowledged: “You. Mad. GRRRR. Mad. Mad. Mad. Want to stay at park. Stay. Stay Stay.” Um, yeah, I don’t think so. I appreciate the suggestion, but I think I’ll go out on my own on this one. Come on. I think the whole host of other ridiculous, embarrasing, goofy things I have to do on a regular basis have used up all my humility points for – oh, say – THE REST OF MY LIFE!!! To his credit, I have, at least, tried acknowledging her feelings, letting her know that I understand exactly why she is mad. But note – I do this with regular words and in a regular tone of voice. And what do you know? It really does help diffuse the situation enough to get her into a reasonable space — at least long enough to actually try to distract her with gifts and sugary treats.

So, as you can see, I am bettering my 33-year-old self already. And at this rate, who knows — maybe I’ll even be grown up enough to stop mocking NASCAR fans. Or not.

Gotta Hemi?