My son works in rage the way an artist might work in paint or clay. He has mastered it’s subtle nuances and can often bring it to a level that could only be truly achieved by someone who has years perfecting the art of losing one’s shit. Some people take a lifetime to gain this kind of mastery. My son? Yeah, he’s three. On the rare occasions that I choose to actually go to battle with him, I usually end up losing in a bloody blaze of defeat. Most days, I have learned to do my best to stay out of the way. Like right now? Um, he’s sitting at the table eating a bowl of pesto. Not pesto PASTA, just pesto. The battles I choose only tend to be engaged when someone’s life is in danger. Death by garlic breath is not one of them.

Yesterday I had the lucky opportunity of being beaned in the back of the head with a shoe that was hurled from the backseat, which was the preceding act to completely unbuckling the top half of his carseat restraints and beginning to writhe out of the bottom half. All this was over a smoothie that he said he didn’t want, then decided he did, then didn’t, then did, then didn’t. Then I put my foot down, left the drive-through and drove away. Right about the time that I realized the screaming was actually accompanied by a carseat houdini act, I had no choice but to pull over and engage on a full-on wrestling match with my screaming, spitting, firebreathing child – all within just feet of the cars breezing past me on the freeway.

So, you can imagine my joy and anticipation when Steve announced last Friday that he wanted to take both kids to the fair with him. Out of a sense of guilt duty I offered to accompany him, even though this whole fair thing has kind of been established as his own special kid-bonding experience. I knew that him, alone with both children in this overstimulated environment was a disaster in the making. But hey, maybe I was over-reacting, right?

Let’s just say that $75 and 2 hours later, we emerged from the fairgrounds dirty, sticky, tear-streaked and just barely clinging to life.

I did my best to try and take pictures of the moments when the kids were actually smiling. You know, trying to just remember the good times. After all, Isn’t that rule #1 in the parenting manual?